


Illumine

by ba_rabby



Category: Elder Scrolls, Elder Scrolls V: Skyrim
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/F, F/M, Minor Character Death, Multi, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-11
Updated: 2018-11-04
Packaged: 2019-01-27 01:43:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 28,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12570904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ba_rabby/pseuds/ba_rabby
Summary: Vilkas and Farkas spent their lives in the safety of Jorrvaskr’s halls. But the Companions are changing. The Silverhand snaps at their heels, the Civil War’s poison leaches into their city’s walls. Now, with Alduin the World-Eater returned, the Dragonborn comes from the south and to the Companions' door. A foreigner who knows nothing of Nord myths and wants no part of them.





	1. Arrivals

Tavia glared at Ralof’s shoulder as he snored on his sleeping mat beside the bed. She glared, but she dared not move. Behind her, Ralof’s sister puttered about the one-room house and Tavia was too tired for stilted conversation. Too tired of probing questions. And she was far too tired, too blind-sided by the day’s events to concoct convincing lies. She lay still in the scratchy sheets, matched Ralof’s breathing and feigned sleep.

The door opened. It did not creak but dragged against the floor like it was overly large and too heavy for the frame. _Typical Nord design,_  she thought. 

“Mama,” said a voice, before it launched into a stream of Nordic Tavia could not follow. She understood a few words, like “horses” and “road” and tensed.

Ralof's sister, Gerdur, was suddenly beside Tavia, still speaking to her son in Nordic. She and Tavia locked eyes. Gerdur switched to heavily-accented Cyrodiilic, “The soldiers are coming.”

Tavia levered upright as quickly as her burns and bruises allowed. She hoped she would not have to fight that night. Her limbs felt as sturdy as warm wax.

She cast around for her armour. Couldn’t see it at first and cursed herself for not wearing it to bed. Then saw that Gerdur had cleaned and mended the gashes in both her and Ralof’s cuirasses. Tavia tossed the larger of the two to Ralof who caught it one-handed as he wriggled into his mail. He had been all smiles and relief when they ate supper a few hours earlier.

As they dressed, Gerdur scooped up the sky-blue Stormcloak sashes and threw them into the hearth. Ralof cried out in protest, but she gave him a quelling look and Tavia liked her for that. Her son hopped to the fire and heaved at the bellows. As Tavia scooped up her bow, checked the quiver, the flame pulsed and sighed like a living thing and soon the incriminating cloth was consumed by orange smokey fire.

Gerdur opened the door, peered left and right. Whispered, “This way.”

When they arrived at the north gate, Gerdur startled Tavia by yanking her into a rough hug. “Thank you for bringing my brother to us safely.” She stepped back and shoved a bundle into Tavia’s arms. “Take the road to Whiterun. They won’t look for Ulfric in the city. Tell Balgruuf what I said, you hear? Ralof, you take a cart to Windhelm. Don't you stop to be _brave_.”

From the village came the clatter of hoof-beats on stone.

Gerdur pushed them through the archway. “Go.” 

They ran, tired and staggering like drunks down the trail and over the bridge. When yells came at their backs, their legs became surer. Fear made Tavia’s limbs light. She would have loped ahead had she known where she was going.

She may not have felt the urge to take up arms with the Stormcloaks, but she had killed enough Imperials while clawing her way out of Helgen, that she did not want to meet a legionnaire who had survived the dragon.

She shuddered at the memory of staring into that long black face, the metal smell of blood from the chopping block in her nose. Looking into the dragon's mouth as its jaws opened.

She shook her head. She’d gotten away. That was all that mattered. She hoped never to see the beast again. Skyrim was vast; it couldn’t be so hard.

 

*********************

 

Vilkas wound the potion-soaked bandage around Kodlak’s chest a final time before he tied it off.

“Don’t move around too much and that should keep it steady for the night, at the least,” he said.

“A night is all I need,” Kodlak said as he lowered himself onto his sleeping mat. He sighed. “Thank you, lad.”

Vilkas nodded, pleased by the gratitude, and packed away his potions.

The giant that broke Kodlak’s ribs had been dead for over a week by the look of its milky eyes and sagging, stinking flesh. Regardless, the necromancers managed to command the creature, and though it was slower than a living giant, the corpse seemed even stronger. Kodlak’s breastplate was cracked where he'd been struck. More work for Eorland and Thorold at the forge, it seemed.

Vilkas was certain that if he were magically inclined, he might be impressed by the coven. But he was not magically inclined. No Companions were. So he spat on the necromancers after dumping their bodies beyond their stronghold’s wall for the scavengers.

Vilkas noticed Kodlak slowing and wincing as they did their final duties: rounding up their horses and cremating the necromancer’s victims. When Kodlak finally relented to Vilkas’ questions and stripped off his armour, they saw the damage. A simple potion of wheat and mushroom was the best remedy. The bandages soaked in the last of VIlkas' healing stock were for good measure.

Vilkas closed his pack and looked up at the Harbinger in the firelight. He remembered a time when Kodlak’s hair had been black from scalp to tip. Remembered a time when Kodlak would have mended after just drinking a potion.

The horses whinnied, and their hooves clopped on the stones from where they were hobbled for the night. Vilkas froze and peered around. It was useless. The firelight had blinded him to the dark. More than likely a wolf or bear had spooked the mares. Though once a wild animal got a whiff of a Circle Member, they tended to find other targets. Such were the boons of the beast blood.

The horses complained again, and Vilkas froze to listen. Those girls were calm and steady enough to take werewolves as riders. They did not spook easily.

Stones shifted, and pebbles rolled from above. Vilkas stood with his back to the fire. He was in his armour from the waist down, though he’d taken off his boots. Kodlak, who had not noticed anything amiss, was utterly unarmored.

Vilkas felt the beast under his skin; claws pricked the inside of his finger pads, straining to change.

Everyone at the stronghold was dead. Vilkas and Kodlak made sure to take care of every necromancer. Mone of the people they'd found in the cages had pulses anymore.

“What is it?” Kodlak asked, finally.

Vilkas frowned. He heard the _phmp_ of an arrow leaving a bow and dropped. Something whizzed overhead to clatter woodenly in the dark a way off. 

He swore and scrambled on hands and knees towards his weapons. A swordsman barred his path. Vilkas, unarmored and unarmed, staggered back.

“You’ll die tonight, dog,” the man said as he rose his sword.

 _Silverhand_ , Vilkas thought.

Fear shivered through him as the silvered blade came arcing his way.

Unbidden, he changed.

The night became bright, and Vilkas saw that the man wore leather armour. His forearms, his armpits, his legs were bare.

Vilkas lunged, a half-ling beast with black fur sprouting from his arms and hands. He clawed at the man’s face with nails that grew longer as his fingers shortened. The man dropped his sword and brought his hands to his bloodied eyes. Vilkas snapped his jaws at the man’s hands. Felt the bones crunch under flat teeth. He bit again, and the flesh yielded to his fangs.

Blood on his tongue.

 _More_.

He crunched the man’s throat with ease.

His hind legs were tangled in the remainder of his armour when the second attacker came. Vilkas lunged clumsily anyway. This man gripped his short-sword two-handed. None of the cockiness of the first. An arrow shot through Vilkas’ armour, and he snapped back and snarled at it. But it pinned the leather to the ground, and he could finally pull free.

In this form, Vilkas could turn on a half-septim, and before the man could scream, Vilkas had one of his wrists in his jaws. He bit down, his teeth barely slicing through the leather bracers. He moved up the arm and bit again and higher and again and higher and again finding the soft meat where the arm attached to the chest. He pulled.

The man went down screaming, lamed, bleeding. He would not swing a sword again.

Vilkas’ ears twitched, and he leapt aside as a blur of silver arced past him.

Another Silverhand. This one slashed at Vilkas with a broadsword; it too reeked of silver. He snarled at the blade as the woman drew closer, stabbing at the air as Vilkas skipped back and back. The Silverhand brought her arm up, and Vilkas lunged for her calf. He bore her down. His claws found purchase in the soft places where her armour didn’t cover.

With the blood and noise and silver, Vilkas’ human thoughts were a long way off.

The horses screamed, and there was the sound of something very heavy toppling over.

Another arrow and another. The archer was a fast draw, and Vilkas could not tell from which direction the arrows came.

From up above, someone yelled, and the bow clattered to the ground. Kodlak was afoot on the stronghold's upper walkway. The archer fell to the ground, got to his hands and knees only to find Vilkas waiting for him.  

Vilkas licked his chops of the archer's blood, glanced up, spotted Kodlak stalking towards the last Silverhand. The bandages dangled from the wolfish torso.

The last Silverhand was a maiden. She looked young but with hair was so fair it looked white as it danced in the wind. She clutched her arm to her chest.

Vilkas almost felt sorry for the girl.

Pain fired up Vilkas’ hip, and he spun, yelping and snarling. The frightened swordsman with the ripped arm had stabbed him with a dagger.

"Krev, run!" the swordsman yelled.

Vilkas rounded on him. The dagger was silvered, and it _burned_.

It burned all of his human thoughts away.

He needed to feed.

Everything was drowned out by the Silverhand’s screams when Vilkas fell upon him.

 

*********************

 

It rained. Fat stinging drops soaked Farkas’ fur to his skin. He kept his nose to the ground, squinted and huffed against the splashing water. 

He was glad when the scent trail finally went off the road and into the forest.Smells stuck better on soil and plants rather than the packed earth and stone of paths.

They had to find Thorold. Fralia would be so sad if they came back without him.

Farkas and Skjor had left as soon as she told them that Thorold was late returning from a delivery. They walked out to Riverwood, where Thorold had been last. There were strange sounds and fire to the south, but it was in Falkreath, and they had a job to do in Whiterun, so Farkas didn’t pay it any mind.

They looked around. Skjor spoke to Alvor at the forge who said Thorold had brought a small steel order from the Skyforge a few days ago. He hadn’t seen Thorold since, though. Once it was dark and the townsfolk were in their beds, Farkas and Skjor changed. Farkas sniffed around the edge of town until he found Thorold’s scent heading south-east. 

They had hoped to beat the rain. Thorold’s trail was washing away, getting harder and harder to make out.

Farkas lost the trail. Skjor skipped out of the way when he had to double back to find it. If Farkas were a real wolf, this might have been easy: the rain and the three-day-old track. But he was not a wolf.

Farkas raised his head, scented the air and stopped.

_Blood?_

Farkas ignored Skjor’s pacing and took deep huffs of air stretching his ribs as he inhaled. Blood and the storm-smell of magic. Thorold’s trail went that way. Farkas made a guess and loped towards the smell of a fight.

He checked the ground. Yes, Thorold’s trail still wound through the trees. Farkas went as fast as he could while tracking.

They found the camp.

Even with the rain, the smell of blood was everywhere, and Farkas drooled.

The camp was sacked. Farkas’s ears pinned back.

Wolves had passed through. Some of the bodies were half-eaten. In the morning, ravens would come.

Farkas smelled elves. There were no elf bodies, just their blood and pieces of armour here and there.

He snuffed at a scrap of fabric. _Not Dark Elf like Athis_.

He pressed his nose against the soaked cloth. _Not like the Wood Elf brothers who ran the Drunken Huntsman_.

 _High Elf_ , Farkas decided. He recognised the scent from trips to Solitude and Windhelm.

Farkas stepped away and shook his whole body to clear his thoughts. Thorold had come here to a soldier's camp and had been met by high elves. Whether he was alive still… Farkas had to know.

He put snout to the ground.

There. He smelled Thorold's blood in the tall grass. Farkas followed it. There again, another bloody rock. Another. Farkas found a large patch of blood. A puddle. The rain picked up, and he growled in frustration as the blood and mud and rain mixed and flowed downhill.

There was the sharp smell of elves and magic in the mud.

He scratched at the spot on the ground. The mud squelched between his toes. He spiralled out in wider and wider circles, sniffing and sniffing and sniffing. But the trail was gone.

 


	2. Whiterun Gate

Tavia and Ralof ran to Whiterun City. They stumbled through the heavy rain over the slippery, pitted road. Finally, they passed farmer’s fields at the foot of the hill, half-visible in the mist and early dawn-light. Tavia was soaked to the skin; her over-large boots squelched with each step.

“What ifthe Imperials search the city?” Tavia asked as they slowed their pace on the flat road.

Ralof scoffed. “Ulfric would never go to Balgruuf for help.”

“Does the legion know that?” Tavia did not want to stay in Whiterun, not even tofulfil Gerdur’s mad request. It was too close to the southern border with Cyrodiil. 

“ _Everyone_ knows that Balgruuf would never help Ulfric. Balgruuf says he hasn't chosen a side in the war, but he pays dues to the Empire, doesn't he.”

Tavia pretended to trip over a rock in the road. Ralof caught her by the elbow. 

She touched his bare arm between his bracers and mail sleeve and said earnest-sounding, “Yes, but what if they decide to search anyway?” She pretended to hesitate. “Maybe I should go north with you?”

Ralof let her arm go. “The city is just up ahead. We’ll be there soon.”

 

A smudge of blue-black remained in the western sky as they staggered to the Whiterun stable. Tavia let Ralof hail the stable boy who was already shovelling the barn in the light of a lantern. She listened with half an ear as she kept her eyes on the road. The fog from the fields pooled in the valley around the city. At another time, in another place, fog was a welcome friend.

The stable boy went into a nearby house to find the cart driver. Tavia started when Ralof took her hand; his thumb brushed her bruised knuckles.

“You know,” he said. “You don’t have to be a Nord to fight for Skyrim’s freedom.”

Tavia looked away. Couldn’t decide if Ralof was naive or actually stupid. She bit her lip, smiled, peered up through her lashes. “I’ve only just arrived to Skyrim.”

He looked over his shoulder and lowered his voice, “You saw the Empire’s corruption. You are a fine fighter, and you took the Warrior’s blessing at the Standing Stones. I’m certain Ulfric would gladly take you into his ranks.”

The cart driver came from the house, coughing and snorting, a torch in hand. Tavia and Ralof split apart. Ralof told the driver where they wanted to go. The driver told them how much it would cost.

“Forty septims a day!” Tavia gawped. Her only chance to get away from the south and the border and the chance cost more money than she had. More money than she’d relieved from the soldiers she’d killed and scavenged from Stormcloak victims in the cells. 

_Damn my luck._

The Imperial soldiers had taken everything from her before they tossed her unconscious onto the cart to Helgen wearing nothing but rags. They took everything. Her beautiful armour, every septim she’d smuggled out of the Imperial City. Every potion and poison and weapon. Her carefully planned flight across the border was for nought. 

The driver shrugged. “The roads to Windhelm have only gotten worse since the war started. Empire won’t pay for their maintenance and Jarl Ulfric—” He raised the torch, looked Ralof up and down. “He has other priorities. Makes it hard for the horses. And the carriage, truth be told. Costs money to replace those wheels when they break in a pothole.”

Ralof swung his satchel around and pulled out a small money sack. “Take it. I’ll walk the rest of the way if I have to.”

The driver hefted the coin purse, nodded. “And you miss?”

“I haven’t the money,” Tavia replied.

The driver's voice hardened, “I can’t carry passengers who don’t have the coin."

“Of course,” Tavia replied. She turned back to the road. Peered into the morning mist, quickly weighed her options. She needed to get within the city walls.

“Pardon?” she said, realizing that Ralof was staring at her expectantly.

“I said that I thought you had money,” he repeated.

“Not enough for even two days of the journey.” She looked at the driver and nodded at the path to the city. “The gate’s up there?”

“Aye,” the driver said. “But I don’t know if the guards are letting strangers into town right now. There was a great big hubbub down south, and the gate’s been shut.”

Tavia gave Ralof a look, hoped he would get her meaning. If telling the Jarl about Helgen’s dragon was her only chance of asylum, she would prefer if they kept that information to themselves until the gates closed behind her.

“Maybe we could split the cost,” Ralof said to the driver, his gaze flicking to Tavia.

“You could, but that’ll only get you five days out between the two of you and that’s only a third of the way.”

“It’s no matter,” Tavia said and flashed them both the smile she used to use for her superiors when plans were bound to go belly-up. “I’ll sort myself out.”

Ralof frowned. Tavia ignored it. She didn’t need his pity.

“So who am I taking, then?” the driver asked.

“Just me, it seems,” said Ralof.

“Right then. I’ll have the horses ready right away.” He turned and barked orders at the stable hand who had been listening to them the whole time.

“Good luck,” Tavia said to Ralof and walked up the path.

“Wait,” he called.

“Yes?”

He reached for her hand and she side-stepped. He dropped his arm to his side. “You don’t have to run off just yet.”

“I have an errand for your sister.”

Ralof blinked. “A moment ago you were about ready to jump on the wagon.

“We would have had time for me to do this while we waited. Since I’m not going with you, I’ve no reason to stay and may as well do as she asked,” Tavia said the last over her shoulder as she was already walking up the path.

He looked hurt, but he didn’t call her again.

 

 

It took little effort for Tavia to persuade the gate guards that the Jarl would want to know about a threat to his towns. The guards could not, however, be persuaded to let Tavia walk through Whiterun unaccompanied meaning that she had to truly stand before the Jarl. 

She kept her head down and hoped that the early hour and her helmet would dissuade attention or at least later being recognized as the guard marched her through the first level, past houses and the shop-fronts of a market square. Only the early morning mothers or elder daughters were there, chattering as they filled their urns at the well in the half-light. They paid Tavia no mind. 

On the city’s middle level stood a tree, leafless and barren; an odd sight in late summer, even this far north. Across from the tree stood a statue of Talos. Tavia nearly stopped in shock.

_Divines, they must be stupid to have that sitting in the middle of their city._

Maybe Whiterun was not the proper place to lay low if she wanted to avoid the Thalmor. But she had little choice unless she wanted to travel the province on foot and without camping gear.

At the city’s highest level stood the Jarl’s palace. The guards called it Dragon’s Reach.

Inside, it was expansive. Two tables, laden with food, flanked a central fire pit. Tavia’s stomach growled at the smell of the meat and fresh bread. The diners had not noticed Tavia and her guard’s arrival as they walked up the steps.

The hall felt cool, Tavia was still damp from the rain. But the light from the crackling fire pit and the light from the torches and lanterns bounced off the wooden beams, making the place at least look warm and welcoming. Dragon’s Reach was far different from the austere stone of the Imperial Palace in Cyrodiil.

At the end of the court was a dais and on the dais, an empty throne and on the wall behind the throne was a mounted dragon skull. The sight of it made Tavia start.

_Well, I won’t have to work too hard to convince the man that dragons exist. Not with that thing snarling over his head every day._

A Dunmer woman stood guard beside one of the diners closest to the throne. He was a lean, blonde man wearing a gold circlet. The Dunmer, with ashen-blue skin, red hair and red eyes saw them and stalked over, her sword drawn. 

“What is the meaning of this?” the Dunmer asked. “The Jarl is not seeing any visitors.” She gave Tavia a measured look, but her ire was directed at the guard.

He saluted, “This traveller says she has news of a threat to Riverwood.”

“Riverwood you say? What is the nature of this threat?” she asked Tavia.

“Gerdur of Riverwood asked that I relay her message to the Jarl himself.”

The woman squinted. “I see.” She sheathed her sword and said sharply to the guard, “Watch her.”

The blonde man had watched the exchange without stopping his breakfast. The swordswoman returned to the table, leaned down to whisper in his ear. She pointed in Tavia’s direction as she spoke and Tavia kept still under the man’s scrutiny.

 _A court official_ , she thought. He wore ornately embroidered robes with fur over his shoulders, and his circlet bore a large ruby at its centre. Two children and a young man, not much more than a boy, ate beside him.

When the Dunmer finished speaking, the nobleman nodded, wiped his mouth and rose. The woman gestured to Tavia’s guard, and he prodded Tavia in the back with the butt of his pike. Tavia did not glower, but walked to the dais as the blonde man settled on his throne.

_Ah._

Tavia took off her helmet and got to one knee.

Jarl Balgruuf was lean, but his arms were corded with muscle. He wore a sword on his hip despite his high status and the fact that he had a personal guard.

He steepled his fingers and stared at Tavia for a beat. “I hope that what you have to say is important enough to interrupt my breakfast. And get up.”

“I apologize, Jarl Balgruuf, but I bring urgent news from Riverwood,” she paused, uncertain of how to explain the dragon attack without implicating her self and whether or not to mention the Imperials searching Riverwood.

A small man, tan-skinned Imperial by the look of him, approached the dais and stood behind the throne.

“Go on,” Balgruuf said waving his hand for her to continue.

“A great dragon attacked the city of Helgen, and I was sent by Gerdur of Riverwood to ask for aid. She feels that they are in danger from the beast as they saw it fly north. She asks for guards be posted in the town.”

Balgruuf looked thoughtful. “Gerdur. She owns the lumber mill?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Pillar of the community.” He spoke softly as though trying to recall the woman. As though he had met Gerdur personally. “Not prone to flights of fancy,” he said. “Was she certain it was a dragon? Not some Stormcloak attack gone awry?”

“No, sir. It was a dragon.” She gestured at the wall overhead. “Not unlike that skull behind you.”

“I do not doubt that such creatures existed _once_ ,” Balgruuf replied. “What I doubt is that a dragon is about in these times.” He looked annoyed. But he was not unreasonable. _She_ knew of only one dragon, and that dragon lived and died while Tiber Septim was forging the empire centuries ago.

Tavia did not like the idea of spending the day in a cell for disturbing him without just cause. She swallowed, "I assure you it was a dragon, sir. I fled from it myself."

Balgruuf took in Tavia’s appearance. She’d bathed as best she could at Gerdur’s, but she was bandaged and blistered and singed. Hastily harvest fly amanita caps could not do much to heal alone. The scrapes on her face still stung, and her armour was charred in places. The burnt cuirass was courtesy of the Imperial interrogator mages, but Tavia knew what it looked like.

Balgruuf smiled an intimate smile at the Dunmer. “So you were right again, old friend. And it seems that Farengar's research is proving useful after all.”

His guard stepped forward and said, “My Jarl, we must send a detachment to Riverwood at once. If that dragon is hiding in the mountains, that village is in the most immediate danger.”

The little man behind the throne said, “We mustn’t be so rash. If we send troops to Riverwood, the Jarl of Falkreath will think we are siding with Ulfric and planning to attack him.”

The Dunmer replied, “Now is hardly the time for politics.”

“Now is certainly the time for—“

“Enough!” Balgruuf said. “I will not stand idly by as a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people.” To Tavia’s guard Balgruuf said, “Get Helga and tell her to meet Iraleth in the pavilion at once.”

“Yes, my Jarl,” the guard said before running off.

The Jarl turned to the Imperial man behind the throne. “Proventus, I want those guards fully stocked with rations and supplies. I don’t want them putting pressure on the people of Riverwood for food and drink. They don’t even have a proper market.”

“Yes, Jarl Balgruuf.” He too darted off to complete his task.

The Jarl shared a strange look with Iraleth and Tavia took one step back in the hopes of creeping out of Dragon’s Reach, but Balgruuf said, “Stay. I wish to speak with you.”

“Yes, sir.”

“What is your name, traveller?”

Tavia told him.

Iraleth stood close by. Her sword was sheathed, but she gave the casual impression that she could draw it faster than Tavia would be comfortable with.

“Forgive Iraleth,” Balgruuf said. “She is…protective of me and my family. For which I am eternally grateful.” He smiled at her. “What I want to know is, what happened at Helgen. I heard reports of strange noises from the south, and some claimed to see a bat-creature larger than a house flying north as you said, but I’ve heard no news from the area. Come here,” he gestured at her and Tavia stepped onto the dais.

“I believe that I was ahead of the news,” she replied as Balgruuf examined the blisters on her forearms. He did not prod at the bandages where she bore the worst burns, and she was grateful. She'd been lucky to find fly amanita at all this early in the year, and it helped. However, a resist fire potion with some added healing reagent would have worked better.

“I see,” Balgruff said touching her wrists and turning her arms over. He spoke quietly, “You must have been moving very fast. Trying to stay ahead of the Legion?”

“Sir?”

He circled her wrists with his large hands, gentle over the wrappings. “The cuirass you’re wearing…Ulfric favours the scaled leather for his foot soldiers. Your swords are Imperial make as are your boots and you would not have-- misplaced your sash. Would you?”

Tavia didn’t know what to say. She had very clear expectations of what Nords were like. Loud, brash, heavy-handed, certainly. Keenly observant was not within her expectations.

Balgruuf looked up at her. “Tell me, girl, are you a Stormcloak spy?”

“No sir.” She didn’t dare pull away.

“Why were you in Helgen?”

Tavia hesitated, settled on a version of the truth. “I was travelling north from Cyrodiil, and I was passing through Helgen. The dragon attacked. There was a lot of confusion, and I had no armour, so I took the armour off of a fallen Stormcloak.” She deflected with, “When the dragon came the Imperials were about to execute Ulfric Stormcloak.”

Balgruuf made a sound of annoyance and released her wrists. “Of course Ulfric is mixed up in this.”

“I doubt he planned it, sir. He was running from the dragon just like everyone else.”

“Who wouldn't.” Balgruuf stroked his beard. It was surprisingly very blonde with little grey for a man whose face looked so weathered. “Do you think he made it out alive?”

“I do not know, sir." She added. "If he got out of the dragon’s way there’s no reason why he couldn’t have survived the attack.” 

Balgruuf looked at Tavia, at Iraleth and back at Tavia. “And I imagine that the Empire is looking high and low for anyone who came out of Helgen. If not for information about Ulfric at least to get a— what’s their legal word?”

Iraleth said, “A statement.”

“Yes, a _statement_ about the incident.” 

Tavia held Balgruuf’s gaze. “That is not unlikely.”

The Jarl nodded and leaned back on the throne. “What was it like?”

“What was what like, sir?”

“The dragon?”

Tavia replied with the whole truth, “Frightening.”

“But you made it out alive.” His expression was calculating.

“Yes, sir."

“You managed to…acquire armour and weapons and get out of the city right under a dragon’s and the Empire's nose. I might have a task for someone with your talents.” He smiled at her.

Tavia didn't reply. 

“Come with me,” Balgruuf said before he rose and walked out of the great hall.

The Jarl led them to a small room with the accoutrements of a mage: an enchantment altar, soul gems littered across the tables and an alchemy lab that Tavia tried not to stare longingly at. Balgruuf shook his head when he found the chamber empty and banged on a small door off to the side while muttering under his breath about lazy wizards.

“Farengar, wake up.”

After a few moments of clattering from the other side of the door and wizard, dressed in brown robes, appeared in the doorway.

He coughed and said, “Yes, my Jarl. What can I do for you so early in the morning?”

Behind Tavia, Iraleth sighed.

Balgruuf ignored Faregar’s tone and said, “I have an adventurer for you. She will assist that task you say is vital to your work.”

“Task?”

“The tablet?” Balgruff replied.

“Ah yes.” Farengar looked Tavia up and down. “Are you sure?”

“Quite sure,” Balgruuf replied. “She has first-hand experience with dragons. Didn't you, Tavia?” He gave Tavia a loaded look and said to Farengar, “Fill her in on the details.”

“Yes, my Jarl,” Farengar replied looking at Tavia with interest.

When the Jarl and Iraleth had left Farengar said, “You don’t look like the warrior-type.”

“I’m not,” Tavia replied flatly irritated with the Jarl and now at this wizard. “What do you need and where is it?”

“Ah straight to the point.”

Tavia flashed a mirthless smile.

“Well, I need a stone tablet retrieved from Bleak Falls Barrow just outside of Riverwood.” He turned to consult a map. While he fiddled with the ancient paper pinned to a half-wall, Tavia palmed a soul gem from one of the larger piles strewn across the desk

“Do you know where that is?” Farengar asked still looking at the map.

“Yes,” Tavia replied. Hefting the warm gem discretely in her palm, trying to guess its type. How much it would be worth if she could fence it.

“Excellent,” Farengar said. “That saves us some time. This stone tablet maps—.” He glanced back at her and Tavia relaxed her arm by her side. “It maps something important to do with dragons, but I doubt that matters to the likes of you. I want you to find the tablet and bring it to me.”

“All right.”

“Excellent. The Jarl will reward you appropriately once you’ve completed the task.”

“That’s good to hear.”

Farengar smiled at her like one would at a child. “Now that you have your instructions, I hope to see some results soon.” He turned back to his sleeping chamber and shut the door.

Tavia blinked at her dismissal before narrowing her eyes at the wood grain, turning on he heel and leaving without stealing another soul gem.

Her current armour was not what she was used to. Her armour before the border crossing and the guards who had stripped her of every possession leaving her in rags had been a thing of beauty. And it had pockets. Pockets and pouches and purses and bags. All sewn in and tucked away so that when she had a hot item in her possession, she could get it out of her hand and hidden even while eyes were on her. Her current armour amounted to an unflattering leather dress. She scowled and dropped her nearly-empty pack to the floor, and while reaching for her waterskin, she dropped the soul gem into an inside pocket. It was clumsy, but she was out of practice. She wouldn’t be able to sell the damned thing in town anyway.

She walked back into the main hall. The Jarl was in counsel with Iraleth and another female guard. They didn’t see her and Tavia didn’t bother to get their attention. She had done what she needed to get into town and stay out of prison. She had no intention to return south if the Imperials were searching for Stormcloaks and their leader.If Gerdur was right, and Ulfric would rather die than ask Balgruuf for help, and if that fact was indeed well-known then Tavia had nothing to fear in Whiterun.

She was about to pass through Dragon Reach’s great doors and to the freedom of the city when a guard stopped her.

“Yes?” Tavia said, worried he’d seen her hide the soul gem.

Instead of trying to arrest her, the guard proffered a leather bundle. “The Jarl offers his thanks for alerting him to the—“ He lowered his voice and leaned closer, “Dragon threat.”

Tavia took the bundle which proved to be a pair of leather bracers, well made with a green halo of enchantment.

The guard added, “They have an alchemy enchantment.”

“Oh.”

“And lockpicking, though I don’t know why the Jarl would give you something like that.”

Tavia’s brows rose and she glanced back at the Jarl’s throne.

“Please convey my thanks to Jarl Balgruuf.”

“Yes. He also said to say that he expects your errand to be done sooner rather than later.”

Tavia nodded gruffly and when the guard looked like he had not more to say, she fled through palace doors and into the freedom behind Whiterun's walls.

 

*******************************

  

Vilkas and Kodlak’s return journey from Falkreath took a day longer than planned. When they arrived at the Whiterun Stables the stable master’s son, Fenrar asked the question that Vilkas dreaded.

“Where’s Gilde?”

“She’s dead,” Vilkas said. He helped Kodlak dismount their remaining mare, Alga.

“But— she was with you lot with you since I was a lad. You’re—” Fenrar stopped talking when Vilkas looked at him askance.

The boy was probably going to finish his sentence with ‘the Companions,’ like that meant that accidents couldn’t happen. Like they couldn’t ever fail.

“We need to purchase another horse,” Vilkas said. “Does your father have any mares available?”

Fenrar shook his head. “Nothing now. He can ask around, but you might have to wait for the spring horse fair.”

Vilkas muttered a curse. Owning only one horse would limit the Companions’ ability to get around the province for work. Not unless they travelled as wolves, but that had its own problems and was an option that only applied to the Circle.

He caught Kodlak’s expression and ducked his head, chastened, and unloaded the last of Alga’s saddlebags without looking at either of the other men. Vilkas had liked Gilde. She had been the older of the Companion’s two horses and was more biddable than Alga who tended to turns of spite.

“Well, ask him to keep us in mind, please,” Kodlak said. “We’re looking for an older mare, not a yearling. Even-tempered. We don’t need her fast. We want to ride her before we pay, of course.”

“Yes, Harbinger.” Fenrar turned to go, leading Alga into the stables. The Companions limped up the trail and to the gates.

 

After a strange exchange with the gate guards, Vilkas and Kodlak’s walk through Whiterun was silent and awkward. Vilkas still felt ill from the silver dagger and was stinging from his conversations with Kodlak on the south road. Unlike Skjor and Aela, Kodlak had opinions about the Circle eating human flesh no matter their form.

The city folk greeted Kodlak warmly. Vilkas watched the way the Harbinger nodded and smiled at the passersby even with bruised ribs and, as Vilkas suspected, his bruised pride. Vilkas could not remember the last time the Silverhand had managed to sneak up on Companions. 

But as always, being home relaxed Vilkas. He breathed in the familiar scents of Carlotta’s fruit and baked goods and the sharp smell of Arcadia’s concoctions from the apothecary. The Greymane stall was empty, the awning shuttered. Perhaps Fralia was unwell. Vilkas made plans to call on her later that night. She had been hale and healthy when he'd seen her last before they'd left for Falkreath. She had pretended to box his ears over a joke between him and Avulstein. Vilkas smiled at the thought. Maybe the stall had done well on the main market days and she was taking a day off. 

By the time he and Kodlak parted ways at the Gildergleam, Vilkas felt the tension between his shoulder blades loosen. He walked up the steps to Jorrvaskr, idly touching the sun-warmed dragon carvings that flanked the steps. This year's blue paint from spring still holding despite the hot summer.

He would have to tell the others about the horse. The cost of Gilde's replacement wouldn’t come out of his cut from the job.  Besides they had funds for that now. They had enough money saved away to replace the entirety of Jorrvaskr if they had to even with the dearth of jobs since the start of the war. They wouldn’t say it was his fault. _Farkas_ wouldn’t blame him, in any case.

Perhaps he and Farkas could drink at the Bannered Mare with Thorold and Alvulstein. A year and a half ago, Jon and Idalof would have joined them, but the Civil War all but destroyed the childhood friendships. Idalof and Jon would still drink with Farkas and Vilkas, but the Greymane and Battleborns could not be in the same room together. That thought soured Vilkas’ mood, but only slightly. The war had been going on for so long that the Greymane and Battleborn feud had lost its bite.

Vilkas shouldered Jorrvaskr’s door open. The whelps milled about inside, chatting. It was late morning, but not near lunch time. Vilkas frowned. They should be out in the yard practising. The savvy ones, Athis and Ria, looked guilty as Vilkas limped by with only an arched brow. Aela noticed his gait and smooth as a snake she rose to greet him.

“Shield-brother,” Aela said, a teasing smile already on her lips. 

Vilkas needed a good deal of sleep and a potion, not Aela’s taunts. He cut her off by saying louder than necessary to the whelps' retreating backs, "You would think that I make those training schedules for my health." 

She shrugged. "I'm not their mother. They know what they should be doing. It's not my problem if they won't train."

Vilkas hobbled down the steps to the living quarters. "It's our problem when we have to take them out in the field, and they can't tell the pommel from the blade."

"It's your problem. I'm not taking that rabble out with me."

Vilkas shook his head, too tired to argue with her. 

Aela's smile came back. “Those necromancers gave you more trouble than you expected? I thought better of you.”

“We ran into unexpected trouble.”

“Unexpected?” she said, smirking.

Once he was certain that none of the other whelps were lazing about in earshot, Vilkas said, “We were attacked by Silverhand.”

Aela didn't say anything for some time. Finally, angrily she said, “They’re getting bolder.”

“And it will cause them nothing but trouble.”

“Perhaps."

Vilkas needed to drop the saddlebags off in Kodlak's room before he could clean up and rest. Skjor sat in the Harbinger’s study.

He looked up as Vilkas approached and frowned. “Where’s Kodlak?”

“Dragon’s Reach,” Vilkas replied. “Balgruuf wanted a word.” It was not uncommon. The Harbinger was revered across the whole province, and Jarl Balgruuf was honoured to have his council when he needed it. 

Skjor eyed Vilkas for a minute.

“What?” Vilkas's guilty conscience about Gilde flared. He felt suddenly like a boy who had stepped out of line but had no way to make amends. 

Skjor shook his head and gestured to one of the study’s empty chairs. “Sit.”

Vilkas narrowed his eyes and turned to look at Aela, but she had vanished. “What's the matter?” Vilkas asked as he dropped his the bags and his backpack before flopping heavily into the padded chair. 

Skjor hesitated before he told him about Thorold.


	3. Welcome to The Companions

Farkas tested the axe’s edge against his thumb and smiled at a job well done. He stepped out from the grindstone, washed and oiled the weapon and slid it into its carrier with the same label tied to it.

He’d spent the last three days at the Skyforge. Doing sharpening, repairs, and when people came with new armour, fittings. It was the kind of work Farkas could still do well even if he were out of practice. That morning, the weapon-repair shelf bowed with Eorland’s new pile from the house. Now the rack was empty.

He put the axe on the work table with the other fixed weapons and walked to the edge of the Skyforge to stretch his legs. Farkas was glad to be done with the day’s work. Eorland hammered at the forge behind him. The afternoon breeze kept the Skyforge clear of smoke.

The yard was clear too. It had been for most of the week. Farkas was too busy helping Eorland catch up with his work to tell the whelps to train. Aela didn’t care. Skjor, who did care, was busy helping the Greymanes in his own way.

Vilkas strode onto the yard. Farkas perked up then startled when someone stepped away from one of the patio’s pillars and followed Vilkas. Farkas hadn’t seen the person there at first. It was a Redguard. A warrior's stripe of dreadlocks ran down the middle of their head, their scalp shaved at the sides. Vilkas spoke and rose his shield. Farkas frowned; his brother was holding his weight funny. The Redguard drew a sword from each hip and circled Vilkas.

The night before, while Farkas had been tired and more than a little drunk, Skjor mentioned that a woman had come to Jorrvaskr looking to join. In the yard, the Redguard swung at Vilkas, and he blocked easily with his shield.

“Farkas,” Eorland called.

Farkas turned.

“Give me a hand with the bellows.”

Back to the hot, hard work of the forge and Farkas couldn’t think of much else other than keeping clear of the sparks and fire as Eorland finished crafting the great-sword.

 

Farkas’ blacksmith tunic was stuck to his chest with sweat by the time Eorland finished. But it was done. And even if Eorland didn’t smile, Farkas knew he was pleased with the sword. 

The Skyforge needed help more often than Farkas remembered. An extra hand to work the bellows and keep the fires roaring. It hadn’t been that way when he was a lad. Back then, the Skyforge was always easy to heat even in the dead of winter. It was why the Greymanes worked in the open air rather than under a proper shelter.

“Good afternoon,” came a stranger’s voice.

They both turned to see a Redguard woman at the top of the steps to the Skyforge.

“Are you Eorland Greymane?” She looked Eorland up and down.

“Aye,” Eorland replied. He turned from her and swung the sword back and forth a few times. Later, he would sharpen the sword and make it pretty.

After a moment the woman said, “Vilkas asked that I bring this to you for sharpening.”

“Farkas, sharpen it for your brother.”

Farkas walked over to her, and he knew before she handed the sword over that it was the joke sword. Vilkas must need to laugh at a whelp’s expense. Maybe she’d done well while sparing with him. Or he must have found out that the other whelps hadn’t trained while he was away. Or he knew about Thorold and thought Eorland would need a cause to smile.

“Eorland, what do you think?” Farkas asked after he took the sword from the woman.

“What?” Eorland snapped.

“You think this could use sharpening?”

“I don’t have time for this, lad—” Eorland began, but he stopped talking when Farkas tilted the sword to him. The runes glinted in the late day sun.

Eorland guffawed. “That old thing still making the rounds?”

The stranger watched him with narrowed eyes, dark as forge coal. She didn’t look happy, but she didn’t look angry either. She didn’t look like she felt anyway at all.

“Vilkas gave you this?” Farkas asked.

She nodded.

“He said it was worth more than you were?”

A muscle ticked in her jaw. “Yes, sir.”

Farkas blinked. No one called him ‘sir’, not even the guards.

Eorland, still smiling, said, “It’s the Companion’s legendary blade, the _Soun a stali.”_

The woman said, “I’m sorry, but I do not speak much of the Nord language.”

“It means _Waste of Steel._ ” Farkas took the sword back from Eorland. He tried to hold it on one finger, but the sword would not balance. He remembered when Avulstein made it back when they thought he might help with the forge too.

Eorland said, “A practice sword made by an untalented apprentice. So bad, it’s funny.”

“I see,” she said. Her voice was deep for a woman. It was nice even though, now, she sounded cold.

She wore a scaled leather cuirass, like the Stormcloaks even though she was Redguard. Everything she wore looked beat up and ill-fitting. She had nice bracers, Farkas noted. They didn’t fit right either, but they looked new.

Farkas turned back to Eorland and saw that the man looked like he was in pain while he packed away his tools. His smile was gone.

Farkas put the sword down. “Get home to Fralia. I’ll finish here.”

Eorland clapped Farkas on the back. “You’re a good lad.” He gathered the weapons on the table to put in his lockbox at the house. They would send them back to the owners soon enough. “Don’t forget about Aela’s shield," he said.

“Sure thing,” Farkas replied.

He began to pack away the tools and wipe the benches. He was surprised when he turned around to find that the woman still there watching him.

“Uh.”

“Are _you_ Eorland’s apprentice?”

“No,” Farkas said and walked past her to put the hammers in their right place.

“You know your way around the forge.”

“I’m here a lot.”

That wasn't entirely true. Farkas had less time to work the forge now that he was in the Circle. He had _duties_.But when he was a boy, he, Thorold and Avulstein spent hours watching Eorland. Eorland had taught him the craft and said that Farkas wasn’t half bad.

He counted the steel ingots carefully, wrote down the number in the ledger book and locked them both in the storage chest. “You’re new.”

She arched a brow. “I’ve spoken with Kodlak now that he’s back if that’s what you’re asking.” Her arms flexed when she crossed them and leaned against the workbench. Dingy bandages wound up from beneath the bracers on both of her forearms.

“Uh-huh.” Farkas stowed the last of the tools. He wasn’t asking anything, really. He scooped up Aela’s shield. He didn’t want to forget it and have Aela make trouble for Eorland.“Hold this.”

The woman took the shield and Farkas thought that he should probably tell her his name. “I’m Farkas. I’m a Companion.”

“Yes. I heard. You're a Companions, but you work the forge.”

“It’s good to know how to fix your own gear,” he said.

She nodded.

Farkas finished tidying the Skyforge. He stood back and looked around to make sure he hadn’t forgotten anything again. He hadn’t.

He went down the steps to Jorrvaskr, and she trailed behind him like a shadow.

“What’s your name?” Farkas asked when they reached the yard.

“Tavia.”

Up close she smelled of leather, clean sweat and…mushroom? Farkas quietly took a sniff. He’d ask Vilkas about it. Maybe she was a herbalist. They might get along.

“Where are you from?” He pushed open the door to Jorrvaskr, and she followed.

“Cyrodiil.”

“That’s pretty far away.”

“Yes.”

 

They got all the way to Circle’s living quarters before Farkas realised that he could have taken the shield himself rather than bringing the new blood all the way down with him. Too late. Tavia may as well get a look around.

He took the shield from her clumsily when they got to Aela’s room. Aela and Skjor were talking, but the door was open, so it wasn’t private.

“Ysgrammor himself wouldn’t have the patience to deal with this rabble,” Aela said. Again.

Farkas knocked on the open door. “Aela, I’ve got your shield from Eorland.”

“Ah, yes, I’ve been waiting for this.” She took it from Farkas and checked the wood panel he’d repaired.

 _Eorland is the only one at the forge now, and he needs to be with Fralia,_ Farkas thought. _Of course, you'd have to wait._

“And who’s this?” Aela asked, looking over Farkas’ shoulder.

Tavia stepped around him.

“This is the one I was talking about,” Skjor said. “Tavia, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” Tavia nodded to Skjor. To Aela she said, “Good afternoon.”

Aela cocked her head. “I heard you gave Vilkas quite a thrashing.”

Skjor chuckled. “You better not let Vilkas catch you saying that.”

Tavia’s lips turned down. “It was meant to be a test.”

“But do you think you could take him in a real fight?” Aela asked, her eyes alight. She would tease Vilkas later.

“I would be a fool to charge him directly like that,” Tavia replied.

Skjor crossed his arms. “How would you handle a foe like him, then?”

She shrugged. “Stick him full of arrows before he gets within swinging range.”

Farkas laughed, and Tavia smiled at him like she was happy he thought it was funny. His face heated a little. 

“You’re an archer then?” Aela eyed the bow at Tavia’s back. It didn’t look like a very good bow.

“Of a sort,” Tavia replied.

“We should go hunting sometime. It’s good to see another woman around this place.”

Skjor said something in reply, but Farkas stopped paying attention. He turned to leave. He wanted to wash up and talk to Vilkas.

“Hey, Ice Brain,” Aela said to Farkas, “since you already have her trailing behind you, show her where she can rest her head.”

“Come on,” Farkas gestured to Tavia.

“I wish to start work as soon as I can. Do Aela and Skjor assign jobs?” she asked when they left the room.

“All of the Circle members do.” He sized her up. She was lean but tall enough, and she was more of an archer than she said because her arm muscles looked like Aela’s.Unlike Aela, Tavia’s knuckles were scabbed over. Maybe she was a brawler.

“How well can you throw a punch?” Farkas asked.

“Well enough.”

“I have a job if you’re interested.”

“What sort of job?”

“Someone in Rorikstead needs to be taken down a notch. Hold on."

They went to his room. He dropped the sword onto his bed and scanned the bar for the job note. He was supposed to give it to Torvar, but Torvar hadn’t done his training this week so Tavia could have it. 

“Ah, here it is,” he said. He smoothed the paper out against his thigh and handed it to her. “This man.”

She read the note. “You want me to beat him up?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

“Cause someone’s paying us. Just rough him up a bit. I don’t want to hear about the killing.” The last thing the Companions needed was another Uthgerd the Unbroken. Tavia didn’t look like Uthgerd. She wasn’t nearly as old for a start. But she also didn’t look like she was itching for a fight all the time. There was no madness around the eyes.

“All right.” She nodded then looked around and smiled. “You entertain often?” She gestured at the bar.

Farkas’s face got warm as he followed her gaze around his messy room. He didn’t ever have strange women in his private quarters.

“That bar was here when I got the room.” He moved towards the door. He had felt like this with Ria and Njada at first. He’d get used to Tavia in time. “Vilkas doesn’t always like to drink with the whelps.”

She chuckled as he shut the door. “I’ve only known Vilkas for an hour, and that sounds like him.”

Farkas laughed too, glanced at his brother’s door and wondered whether he’d heard her. Maybe Farkas wouldn’t take so long to get used to her.

“It’s good to see a new face around.” He said as they walked down the halls. “Ria was the last to join, and that was over a year ago.”

“You don’t get a lot of recruits?” she asked.

“Vilkas says we don’t get many new people now because of the war.”

She hummed and nodded like that made sense.

“Well, here we are. Home sweet home.” He pointed to the bunk area. No one else was around.

“How do I claim a bed?”

“Fall into it and sleep.”

She huffed. “Where can I stow my belongings? Are there lockboxes?”

“No one’s going to steal your things. This ain’t the Thieves’ Guild,” he grinned at her expecting another laugh but was confused by her sharp look.

“I didn't know there was a Thieves Guild in Skyrim.”

“Oh yeah. They’re skulking about now and again.” _Maybe she’s worried about them,_ he thought. He added, “But we know how to take care of them. They don’t deal in Whiterun.”

She didn’t look relieved. “Well, suppose that I just want a place to keep my possessions out of the way?”

Farkas rubbed his neck. “Stow it under the bed? Tilma cleans the place up, and she’s good about putting people’s things back if she’s gotta move it.”

“Right, thank you. I’ll do that job right away.”

“No need to rush.”

She opened her mouth to argue.

“Rorikstead’s a day and a half hike. Unless you like travelling at night, you’re better off leaving in the morning.”

She grimaced. “Is there a map I may refer to?”

“Vilkas knows where it’s kept. I’ll ask him.”

“I appreciate it,” she said, swung her pack off her back and wandered around the room to picked a bed that didn’t have anything leaning against it. “Thank you for your help.”

He wanted to say more, and he hovered in the door for a moment. “All right then,” he said and left her to sort her things.

 

 

Farkas went back to his room, grabbed the joke sword and knocked on his brother’s door.

“Aye,” Vilkas called.

Farkas opened the door find Vilkas chopping mushrooms at his desk. The room smelled earthy. Vilkas looked up, spotted his practice sword in Farkas’ grip and grinned. It reminded Farkas of Vilkas when he was a boy, full of jokes and pranks.

“You’re an ass,” Farkas said as he slotted the sword into its place in the wall storage by the bed.

“Sometimes. But tell me Eorland didn’t at least crack a smile.”

It was true. Eorland would probably take the story home, and he and Fralia and Avulstein might laugh about it a little, even with all that was happening. 

Farkas sat in the chair across from Vilkas and picked at his nails. “Skjor told you about Thorold?”

“Yes.”

Vilkas kept chopping, and Farkas felt more and more uneasy. Finally, he blurted, “I tried to find him, Vil.”

Vilkas looked at Farkas, confused. “Of course you did. I know that.”

“Oh.” Farkas relaxed.

Vilkas gave Farkas an odd look. “I know you tried. I’m just—“ he looked back at his work frowning. “Worried is all. If you didn’t find him, then it means he’s been captured. Skjor said you smelled elves?”

“Yeah.”

“They’re not nice at the best of times. They’ve been rounding up Stormcloaks left and right. What do you think happens to those men and women?”

“Athis is all right.” Farkas rubbed at a smudge of soot on his arm.

Vilkas sighed. “Yes. But Athis is a Dark Elf. That’s different.”

“Right.” Farkas hesitated. “Did you talk to Kodlak?” Kodlak was Vilkas’ forebearer like Skjor was Farkas’. Vilkas knew how to ask Kodlak for things better than Farkas could. And since Kodlak was Harbinger, he had a big say in what the Circle did about some problems. 

“No,” Vilkas said. “I needed some rest after we got back this morning. I was going to talk to him after I woke up, but then the girl came in, and I had to test her arm, and now he’s gone to bed.”

“Oh.” Farkas slumped back in his chair. “Why did you need so much sleep?” he thought back to what he’d seen of the spar from the Skyforge. “You hurt?”

Vilkas waved him off. “It’s nothing.”

Farkas looked at the mushrooms Vilkas was cutting and recognised them. He didn’t remember the name. “But you’re going to make a healing potion?”

Villas pursed his lips. “I used up my stock on Kodlak.”

“Why?”

“It was a lucky blow from a dead thing. His armour needs repairing.” He sighed.

“What’s wrong with it?”

“Cracked breastplate.”

Farkas pictured the damage in his mind. Pictured how he could fix it. “That’ll take two days of work, at least.”

Vilkas grunted.

“Is Kodlak all right?”

“His ribs are mending.”

“But?”

“But we had a run-in with Silverhand.”

Farkas swallowed. He thought about what to ask next. If Vilkas was hurting from _silver_ still, he tended to snap at the hand that tried to help him.

“They attacked us after the job,” Vilkas explained saving Farkas from having to say something.

“Oh.”

“We dealt with them, of course.”

“Of course.” Farkas looked at Vilkas. Noted the way he was sitting angled on his chair, keeping his weight off his right hip. “Are you well?”

“It’s nothing I will be clear of in a few days.”

“A few days without travel will probably help,” Farlas said. “Horse riding can make a wound take longer to heal.”

Vilkas flinched.

“What?”

He struggled and said, “They killed Gilde.”

Farkas’ brows rose. “They went after her?”

“An archer shot her,” Vilkas said. “She bled out.”

That was not a good death. “Are you all right?” Farkas asked again.Vilkas had liked Gilde.

Vilkas shrugged, and Farkas didn’t push.

Farkas felt like the Companions were having a bout of bad luck. First High Elves capture Thorold, then the Silverhand attack Vilkas and Kodlak and now Gilde was dead, and they only had one horse. As long as Farkas could remember, the Companions always had at least two horses. For a while, they had three, but Vilkas said that it cost too much money to keep three horses when their numbers were so low.

But they had a new recruit. 

“How was the spar with Tavia?”

“Odd.” Vilkas scraped the mushroom into his mortar with some wheat grains. “Not as good as I had hoped, but she wasn’t bad.”

“What were you hoping for?”

“She’s a Redguard.”

“What does her being Redguard have to do with it?”

“Amren’s good enough to be in the Circle if he hadn’t stopped fighting when his wife told him to.”

Farkas frowned. “Skjor said that the Redguard lord he worked for out in Hammerfell was useless in a fight.”

Vilkas paused. “I suppose. As I said, she wasn’t bad, but she could use some work. She fought like—“ Vilkas stared at the wall in front of him and thought. “As though she understood fighting from a book. She has perfect form; she just doesn’t use it properly. And she can’t take a blow to save her life. She’s all attack and evade.”

“I gave her a job.”

Vilkas spun around. “Already?”

“She asked for work. It’s just a rough-up job out in Rorikstead.”

“The one with Lemkil?”

“Yeah.”

“You think she can handle him?”

“She can’t be too bad. Skjor said she gave you a thrashing,” Farkas replied smiling.

Vilkas gave him a dirty look. “I didn’t want to kill her. It was just a test.”

“She said the same thing to Skjor.”

Vilkas looked surprised.

“She was pretty eager to start working, so I gave her Torvar’s job.”

Vilkas shook his head. “You need to whip that man into shape. He’s an embarrassment.”

“I didn’t ask to train him.”

“Someone needs to,” Vilkas replied. “Did you tell the girl what to do?”

“I told her to beat him up and not kill him.”

“No, I mean the rest of it?”

Farkas’ brows furrowed. “The rest of what?” He thought. “Oh. No. I forgot.”

Vilkas sighed. “You have to tell them these things, Farkas. You can’t just send them out if they don’t know how to challenge someone to a spar. It looks bad for us.”

“I didn’t have to tell Torvar that stuff,” Farkas muttered.

“Yes, because I told him. We can’t have these new bloods going out saying they’re doing work for the Companions and then behaving in a dishonourable manner. We’re having trouble as it is we can’t have people talking badly about us too.”

“Yes, Vilkas.”

“Don’t yes Vilkas me," Vilkas snapped. “You know I’m right.” He took a deep breath and breathed out slowly. “I’ll go talk to her about how she’s supposed to do her job and collect pay and all the other things no one seems to think is important to mention.”

“I told you, I just forgot.”

“Of course. You just forgot, again.”

Farkas didn’t say anything. Vilkas ground the mushroom and wheat harder than he needed to.

Farkas said, “She’ll probably come by later tonight to ask about a map.”

“You couldn’t just tell her where to go?” 

“She didn’t ask me that.”

Vilkas turned.

Farkas stared back. “Sometimes people want directions. Sometimes people want to look at a map. Don’t look at me like that.”

Vilkas paused then nodded and went back to his work. Vilkas hated being given directions; he preferred to decide where to go on his own.

Farkas wanted to ask about why someone would put mushroom on themselves. He wanted to ask if he could smell Vilkas’ supplies to find out what kind of mushroom Tavia used. But Farkas doubted Vilkas would let him look at his stores now when he was in a mood like this.

Farkas stood. “I’m going to wash up.”

Vilkas glanced at him and seemed just to notice what he was wearing. “You were working the forge?”

Farkas shrugged. “Eorland is behind without Thorold.”

Vilkas sighed. “Shit this is a mess.” He went to rub the bridge of his nose but stopped himself just in time. Even if the mushroom and wheat were good for healing potions, Vilkas never touched his face when he was doing alchemy. He said that was how accidents happened.

Vilkas said, “I’ll talk to Kodlak tomorrow morning. Skjor said he was going to talk to him today, but I don’t know what they decided. You can’t spend all day at the forge and be expected to take jobs too and keep an eye on things. No wonder the whelps were slacking off.”

“I can’t leave Eorland with all that work alone,” Farkas said, putting some steel into his voice.

“I know, I know."

“Besides, I’ll help him get caught up, and then he should be fine. He’d left things for Thorold to do when he got back, is all. He said he won't do it again.” Farkas was embarrassed to hear his voice waver a little. "Can't do it again."

Vilkas looked as upset as Farkas felt. “We’ll find him. Skjor knows people. He’ll ask around. If the elves wanted him dead, they would have killed him there. But they didn’t so he’s alive somewhere. We’ll find him.”

Farkas nodded. He didn’t voice the question that he avoided since they returned from the Stormcloak camp. _Why_ did the elves want Thorold?

  

********************

 

Vilkas spooned the last of the blisterwort and wheat paste into a crucible and covered it with muslin. It needed to sit overnight. In the morning he would take it to Arcadia’s to finish the process with her equipment. Vilkas had enough for five or six potions if he balanced out the rest of the ingredients right. 

He stretched, felt his hip twinge and clutched at his desk to get his breath back.

 _Damned new blood_.

Towards the end of his spar with Tavia, he’d backed her into a corner. He’d been just about to finish her when she feinted and streaked past him. She dashed by closer than was safe in a real fight and the bold move shocked him. He also received a nasty shock when she smacked him with the flat of her sword in his injured hip on her way by. Vilkas bashed her with his shield and sent her sprawling, both swords clanging out of her grasp. He rounded on her and was annoyed but begrudgingly impressed when she launched at him with a dagger, prepared to keep going.

Skjor had laughed. Kodlak looked on with sympathy, but disapprobation and the force Vilkas had used to down the girl.

He sent her off with the joke sword. Partly in irritation and partly with the hope that Eorland would laugh about it. Now she had a job from Farkas and Vilkas had to be the one to explain how things were done around here. Typical.

He went to look for her, starting with the bunk room.

He heard Njada say, “So you’re riding in to rescue the pretty maiden, Athis? Didn’t think she was your type.”

Vilkas didn’t hear Athis’ reply. He crept closer, curious about the new squabble breaking out between them. Startling them tended to end the conflict. 

When he got to the doorway, he saw Njada standing toe to toe with Tavia, sneering. Njada was a hair's breadth taller than Tavia, and she used that to loom as much as she could over the new blood.

Tavia looked up at Njada without expression. “While I appreciate Athis’ advice, I don’t need his aid. Vilkas tested my arm. By the Companions’ process, I have a right to be here.”

“You think so?”

“If what the Circle members told me is true, then yes.”

“You think just because Vilkas said you’re competent we all have to welcome you to the Companions? You don’t even speak Nordic.” Njada pushed Tavia. “You don’t know a thing about us. You won’t last more than a month.”

Tavia stepped back with the shove. She caught sight of Vilkas and disengaged from Njada. “Sir.”

The other whelps snapped their attention to Vilkas and Njada dropped her arm. Vilkas looked around. No one but Tavia made eye contact. He was still fuming that they’d taken his time away as an excuse to lapse in their training. He said, “Farkas said you wanted to see a map.”

“Yes, please.”

“Come.”

Tavia scooped up her pack and Vilkas led her down the hall to Kodlak’s study. He placed a finger to his lips and pointed to the closed doors to Kodlak’s sleeping chambers. Vilkas didn’t want to disturb Kodlak, but the study’s wall map was the only map in Jorrvaskr. Tavia nodded in understanding.

Vilkas spoke softly, “You’re going to Rorikstead in the west.”

Tavia flinched when he reached past her but relaxed when touched the map to show where Roristead lay.

She said, “Farkas told me the town was a day and a half’s travel.”

Vilkas nodded. “This time of year, yes.”

“This time of year?”

“In winter it can take four days.”

“Four?” She looked at Vilkas then back at the map, her eyes wide. “Whatever for?”

He wondered how much of what Njada said was true. That Tavia didn’t know anything about _Skyrim_ much less the Companions. “It snows heavily on the tundra,” he said. “The roads are slow to travel on foot.”

“I see.”

Tavia looked at the map some more, and Vilkas took the opportunity to look at her. She was, as Njada said, comely with high cheekbones and a strong jaw. Smooth unscarred skin the red-brown of fresh clay. Vilkas imagined that with her looks and at her age, Tavia was no maiden. Few women who worked the sword were. It was no matter to him.

She shifted away minutely when he leaned closer. And he frowned. Said anyway, “If you take this road, it will lead you to a hunter’s cabin.” He traced it for her with a fingertip. “It might be empty, and you’ll have somewhere to sleep. You don’t have a tent?” He didn’t see one on her and her pack looked sad and half empty.

“No, I haven’t any camping gear.”

“Try to find the cabin then. It’s not very warm, but it’s better than spending the night outside.”

“Thank you for the advice,” she said.

Vilkas couldn’t help but ask. “Have you ever been in a fist fight before?” The lack of blemishes on her face bothered him. Not even a broken nose. Though he could see a bit of scarring on her scalp besides the warrior’s stripe.

“It’s been some time,” she replied with a smile. “But I’m sure it will come back to me.”

“I ask because Lemkil is quite a large fellow.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Did Farkas explain how you were to do your job?”

Tavia arched a brow. “He said beat him up but don’t kill him. That sounds rather straightforward. I doubt I’ll ruin even those simple instructions.”

“That’s not all there is.” He gestured to the door, and they left the study. VIlkas was tired of whispering.

“When you’re doing an honour job, you have to challenge them to a fight in public and tell them that you’re with the Companions. _And_ , they have to accept. Otherwise, if you just start beating them up you’ll spend a night in jail for assault.”

Tavia went rigid. “Oh.”

Vilkas looked at her curiously. Had she truly planned just to do that? “Then, you need to go to the person who sent the missive and collect payment. On behalf of the Companions. Bring it to me, and I’ll give you your cut.”

“I did not realise that I was responsible for collecting payment.”

“Yes. Farkas didn’t do a good job of explaining things.” He glanced at Farkas’ door and shook his head. How could he forget something so important?

“If they decline to pay?” Tavia asked.

It was Vilkas’ turn to arch his brow. “If you say you’re with the Companions and perform the job, then you can say that you’re with the Companions and collect pay. The challenge needs to be public so that the person who sent the missive sees or at least hears about it from others.”

“I understand.”

“Good.”

Curiosity getting the better of him, Vilkas asked. “What would you have done if Njada threw a punch?”

Tavia looked appalled.

Vilkas smiled. “Where did you think that was going?”

“You don’t just strike a guild— a co-member.”

“Why not.” Vilkas rolled his shoulders enjoying how uncomfortable she looked. She looked like a noble matron who had just found out about skooma or something equally distasteful. “It helps to break the tension.”

“I doubt it.” Her brows knit together. “When I first visited Jorrvaskr, Athis and Njada were fighting, and Njada and Athis are still unpleasant with each other.”

“True.”

“And I assumed that they were fined.”

“Fined?” Vilkas laughed.

“Never mind.”

“What did you do for a living in Cyrodiil?”

Tavia’s expression shuttered. “Odd jobs.”

Vilkas was about to ask another question, but she cut him off. “Obviously, I have much to learn. Thank you for your advice about my route and clearer instructions about my task. Good evening, sir.”

Vilkas watched her walk back down the hall and, rather than return to the bunk area, take the steps to the main level two at a time.


	4. Old Friends, New Friends

Loredas was washing day! Farkas woke up early to be the first in line for a bath.

Weekday baths were a treat Companions earned when they returned from a job. Otherwise, Tilma gave them an earful for giving her extra work. Of course, Farkas washed his face every morning, but it wasn’t the same as a soak. Especially not for his stiff muscles and a week's worth of caked-on grime from the Skyforge.

It was a struggle not to pester Tilma like a boy as she finished filling the tub. Though if Farkas remembered right, he and Vilkas used to hide by the river on Loredas when they were boys. 

Tilma came out of the bathroom drying her hands on her apron and startled when she turned around and bumped into Farkas. He gripped her arm to steady her.

“You’re up early, lad,” she said smiling. “Beating Vilkas out, I see.”

“Forge work is dirty,” Farkas replied.

She smiled sadly. Even if Tilma just did the cooking the cleaning for the Companions, she was…friendly with the Greymanes. She had known Vignar since he was Farkas’ age.

She said, “It’s good that you’re helping Eorland at the forge now that Thorold is gone.”

Farkas blinked. _Gone_ made it sound like Thorold was dead.

Tilma patted Farkas on the shoulder and left. He wanted to tell her that she was wrong, but he wasn’t good with words. He said nothing.

He shuffled into the room and locked the door. Steam curled off the water in the wooden tub. The stone floor was cold under his bare feet, but the water was soothing. He lathered with the herbal soap from Arcadia’s that was supposed to help with muscle aches.

Farkas' mind wandered to what Tilma said as suds floated on the water. He thought about what everyone was saying. _Gone_. Thorold wasn’t _gone_. Not like that. He was missing. Which meant he could be found.

Farkas had worked at the Skyforge for the past five days. He’d helped Eorland but hadn’t see Fralia since he and Skjor had gone to Greymane Manor and told them what they’d seen at the Stormcloak camp. Skjor talked. Farkas had sat there trying to sort his muzzy, half-animal thoughts and the guilt at having failed.

Eorland had listened without a word. At the time, Farkas thought that Eorland's expression was odd. He had wanted to ask him why Thorold was at a Stormcloak camp. Thorold hadn’t said anything to Farkas about joining up, and he talked to Farkas a lot. Even Vilkas hadn’t known Thorold was planning to join.

The afternoon of their return, Fralia asked more questions than Farkas or Skjor could answer. 

In Jorvaskr, Farkas’ fingers ached, and he realized that he was clenching the sides of the tub. He relaxed his hands and rolled his wrists.

Eorland was working shorter days to be home with his family while they…grieved? Farkas wasn’t sure. Eorland didn’t talk much. It was why Farkas liked working for him. Eorland gave instructions, and Farkas did what he was told. He didn’t have to struggle to keep a conversation going. But…he’d wanted to ask after Fralia. He wanted to know how she was.

Farkas perked up. Eorland was all caught up; he didn’t need Farkas at the Skyforge today. He could visit Fralia at the market instead, see how she was doing. She always looked on the bright side. She’d cheer him up. 

Decision made, he stood up, the cool air making his skin prickle. He looked down at the murky water around his knees, stepped out and dried quickly. Farkas didn’t want to be around when Vilkas came looking for a bath and found _that_.

 

Farkas didn’t often go to the market. Not even during the week. Tilma sometimes bought meat from the wood elf, Anoriath. Vilkas spent time working at Arcadia’s or visited the General Goods store for trinkets. But there wasn’t anything for Farkas save the Bannered Mare, and that was for evenings.

He strolled down the steps to the Gildergleam in one of his nicer tunics with a sweet roll fresh from the oven. The market was busier. There were usually a few people during the week, but on Loredas, sellers and buyers who lived out of town travelled to Whiterun's Market District. The crowd wasn’t nearly as big as the big spring market in Second Seed. Then, merchants from all over the province would come to Whiterun for almost two weeks. They would bring their animals and food, clothing and gear to the Spring Fair to trade. Today, it was quieter than most Loredas morning, but there were enough farmers and travellers in the Plains district that Farkas could barely see Fralia’s stall. She might make some good coin today.

He caught sight of Fralia.

And he saw Olfrid and Idalof Battleborn standing in front of her. 

 _Oh no_.

Farkas pushed his way through the crowd.

"Nothing?” Fralia hissed as he drew nearer.“And what of my son, hmm? What of Thorold? Is he nothing?"

Her voice rose. The folk at the market were eying the Battleborns and Fralia. Since the war began, the fighting between the clans always lead to gossip.

Idalof opened his mouth to speak but made eye contact with Farkas who was all but jogging over. Idalof shut his mouth again. He wouldn’t look at Farkas when he said to Fralia, "Your son chose his side. And now he's gone. Such is the way of war. The sooner you accept his loss, the better."

Farkas who avoided the clan fights frowned at Idalof. “You were his friend too.”

“A friend indeed,” Olfrid cut in, grinning. “I’m sure we need friends like you traitorous lot. Thorold will get what he deserves.”

Fralia’s attention snapped to him. “Tell me, Battle-Borns, where is he? Where is the Empire holding my Thorold?”

Olfrid laughed and turned to Idalof. “Do you believe this old hag?”

Farkas’ jaw dropped.

_Hag?_

Olfrid was frightening when Farkas was a boy. He had a quick, sharp temper; it was why, despite the Battloborn brother and the Greymane brothers being friends, Vilkas and Farkas spent more time at the Greymane Manor. 

But _hag_? Farkas wanted to hit Olfrid. But Circle member or not, that wouldn’t end well.

Fralia narrowed her eyes. “You know something. You wouldn’t have come here to gloat if you didn’t. Where are you holding him?”

"Holding him?” Olfrid laughed, but Farkas saw the way he glanced around at the crowd, the people were pretending not to listen. Olfrid said, “Why, I've got him in my cellar. He's my prisoner. Face it, cow! Your stupid son is dead! He died a Stormcloak traitor. And you...  you best keep your mouth shut before you suffer the same."

Farkas rolled his shoulders and crossed his arms. He may not always be good with words, but he knew how to look scary. “I think you should go.”

Idolaf put a hand on Olfrid’s shoulder. "Come on, father. There's nothing more to be said here."

Olfrid snorted, but let Idalof lead him away. “I was done talking anyway.”

Farkas watched them leave, ignored the way strangers stared. Carlotta and Anoriath kept working as though nothing had happened. They were used to the Greymanes and the Battleborns.

Fralia closed her eyes, took a deep breath through her nose and sighed. Her hands shook.

“Fralia,” Farkas said softly.

“It’s all right, lad.” Her eyes snapped open, and she began packing away the jewelry. She didn’t look at the market-goers. “Help me close up the stall. I’m not quite in the mood for the selling anything today.”

Farkas nodded and did as she asked. He always marvelled at the jewellery Eorland made. It was strange that Eorland’s big, scarred hands spent the day hammering Skyforge steel into weapons and the evenings finely twisting and tapping gold and silver into jewellery that noblemen gave to their wives. Farkas wondered if, someday, he could ever make something so fine to gift to a lover.

He folded down the stall’s awning, picked up the boxes of jewellery, balanced the sweet roll on top and followed Fralia back to Greymane Manor.

Fralia was chatty, more often than not. She always had stories, and gossip and wise words to share. Her voice carried when the twins, the Battleborns and her two sons tore around the Greymane house as children.

Now Fralia was quiet. The whole house was quiet. Farkas set the sweet roll in the kitchen. He took the jewellery upstairs and stowed it in the footlocker in Fralia and Eorland’s room with the key she gave him.

When he came back downstairs, Fralia was at the hob in the kitchen. Avulstein was slouched in a chair by the hearth. He grunted in greeting when he saw Farkas, but didn’t say anything else.Olfina came out of her room. Her eyes were red and puffy.

“Mother, you’re home early.”

“Yes, dear.”

Olfina nodded at Farkas. She was the eldest of the family, and Farkas always felt wrong-footed around her. Farkas stood there awkwardly for a moment. Unsure of whether he should leave. His visit was not going as planned.

Fralia turned, looked as though she'd forgotten he was there. “Oh, I’m sorry dear. Thank you for your help. Would you like something to eat?”

“No thank you. I should go.”

Avulstein perked up. “The Companions are going to help us?”

Farkas shifted.

“After everything the Greymanes have done for those people,” Avulstein said looking disgusted.

“Leave it alone," Olfina joined her mother in the kitchen. 

But Avulstein rose and stalked over the Farkas. “You were supposed to find him.”

“We looked all night and day.” Farkas wanted to step back, but he held his ground. The Companions weren’t in the wrong.

“You didn’t try hard enough.” Avulstein stabbed a finger into Farkas’ chest. “You all sit up there in Jorrvaskr, staying out of ‘politics’ and when your next blacksmith disappears you lot don’t give a damn.”

“That’s not true. Skjor said he’s looking into it. He knows people.”

“What do you think will happen when Papa dies? You know I’m shit a the forge, and Olfina is hardly cut out to be a smith.”

“We’ll find him,” Farkas said. _It's not about Thorold taking over the forge. We're friends._

“You said that the last time you went looking for him. You came back empty handed. Your promises are useless.”

“Avulstein,” Fralia snapped.

Avulstein stepped out of Farkas’ space but kept glaring.

“Leave the boy alone. You think he hadn’t hoped to find Thorold? You think he’s happy about this?”

Farkas looked at his feet.

“I have enough to deal with, when I’ve got the Battleborns snarling and sniping at me. I will not have fighting in my own home.”

“The Battleborns?” Olfina and Avulstein said at once.

“What did they say this time?” Olfina asked, her expression ugly.

“It was fine. Farkas came, and they went off with their tails between their legs.” She smiled at Farkas. “Leave it. I’m sure the Companions are doing what they can.”

“Skjor will know who to ask about him,” Farkas said.

Fralia gave him a long look. She reached up and cupped his face. “Farkas, my dear. Don’t just expect others do everything because they say they will. Use that head of yours. You can do things for yourself too. Take some initiative.”

“Yes Fralia,” Farkas murmured.

She smiled at him. Her eyes were sad, but she smiled all the same. “There’s a good lad. No run off and finish your errands. I don’t imagine you came to the market to defend my honour.”

Farkas didn’t look at Avulstein as he left.

He understood what Vignar said about the whole mess:  _There is no more bitter enemy than an old friend._

  

That afternoon found Farkas sitting on his bed, his lute in his lap. The thing wasn’t tuned right, but there weren’t many people in town who played instruments. Jon Battleborn was a bard of sorts. Farkas didn’t want to talk to after his morning at the market. The second bard was Mikael of the Bannered Mare. But Mikael was a prick. 

Aela opened Farkas’ bedroom door. “A giant’s at the Pelagia Farm.”

Farkas didn’t look up. He picked at the strings slowly up and down the scale, turning the tuning pegs as he went. “Uh huh.”

“I can’t take it down alone.”

“Take Ria.”

“I’m not taking just her. She’ll get herself killed.”

Farkas was close to tuning two of the deeper strings and bowed his head to listen more closely.

“Stop sulking for Ysmir’s sake.” Aela stood with her hand on one hip her eyes narrowed. They stared at one another. “Look,” she said. “It’s kind of you to helped Eorland at the forge and all that, but you need to stay sharp with your sword if you’re going to rescue Thorold once Skjor finds out where he is.”

Farkas stared at the lute strings and then put it on the bed. “Let me get dressed.”

“I’ll meet you at the Huntsman.”

 

Farkas found wearing his armour calming. It was heavy and made him sweat, but it was so familiar that he felt naked when he wore everyday clothing. Ria and Aela waited outside the Drunken Huntsman. Aela leaned against the building’s signpost, her arms crossed. Ria watched the people coming in and out of the main gate. Most merchants were on their way out. The market morning was over.

Aela caught sight of Farkas as he strode down the road. She pushed away from the post. “Took you long enough.”

Ria beamed up at him. “Hi, Farkas.”

He couldn’t help but smile back. Ria was a sweet kid.

They walked out the gate, nodding at the guards who watched the crowds idly.

Once outside the gate, Farkas heard someone arguing with guards. 

“I left the city four days ago,” a familiar voice said.

“I didn’t see you leave,” a guard replied. “How do I know you're not lying?”

“I work for the Companions.”

That got Farkas’ full attention. He saw that the stranger was the new woman, Tavia.

The guard scoffed and gave Tavia a slow up and down look. “I know the Companions have fallen on hard times, but they must have sunk low to let _you_ into Jorrvaskr.”

Ria gasped.

“Hey,” Aela barked. The crowd, like a living thing, flinched. Some people watched and others hustled away.

The guard spun, one hand on his sword hilt, then he snapped to attention. “Aela. We didn’t— uh.”

Aela pointed to Tavia. “She’s with us.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“She gets in and out. No trouble. Give her grief again, and we’ll have words. You hear me?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She stormed past and jerked her head at Tavia who limped meekly behind her. But not as meek as the gate guard.

Farkas smirked. He couldn’t tell who the guard was with his helmet on. But if he'd grown up in the city then they, like every other boy in town, chased after Aela when she first moved to Jorrvaskr to be with her Ma. And if he tried really hard to get her attention, she probably broke his nose.

Farkas jogged to catch up to the trio as they walked down the winding road from the city. 

Ria trailed behind Tavia and Aela, who spoke softly. Ria said, “What those guards said wasn’t true.”

Farkas shrugged. It wasn’t a lie either. Things have been better for Jorrvaskr. Tavia didn’t look like the rest of the Companions, but it was the shoddy armour that made her look like a ruffian.

“Why wouldn’t they let her in?” Ria asked.

“Dunno.”

The guards rarely bothered people coming into the city. But the market had seemed quieter than usual. Maybe they had orders from Dragonsreach.  

“I’ll go ask her,” Ria said.

“Wait until Aela’s done talking to her,” Farkas warned. Ria was sweet, but she thought everyone else was sweet too.

Tavia and Aela didn’t stop talking until they got all the way to the Pelagia Farm. Farkas heard bits and pieces; mostly they spoke about her fight with Lemkil. Tavia’s lip looked swollen, and there was a faint bruise on the cheek that Farkas could see. 

From a distance, Farkas saw the giant squatting in the trampled farm field, plucking a dead chicken. None of the farm hands were around. Tavia looked up from chatting with Aela. She gasped and in a movement faster than Farkas could track, she drew her bow and knocked an arrow.

Aela laughed as the foursome ducked behind a barn. “What do you think I meant when I said ‘giant’?”

Tavia’s eyes were wide. “I thought you meant an overlarge animal.”

Ria, sword drawn, was crouched and ready. She looked like a hound straining on its tether. 

Tavia looked terrified. This close, Farkas could even smell that she was ready to bolt.

But rather than turn tail, Tavia turned to Aela. “What do we do?”

 _That a girl_. Farkas drew his sword.

“Kill it,” Aela said.

Tavia glanced at Farkas.

He said, “Treat it like any enemy. But bigger. The skin’s tough but you can cut it and the bones don’t break easy, but they will break. You just have to work harder.”

She swallowed and jammed on her helmet.

“Oh, and watch out for the club,” Farkas added. He couldn’t see a club from where they stood planning, but giants always had clubs.

Aela said, “You work with that bow.” She looked over her shoulder “Just don’t hit us.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Aela smiled. It was all teeth.

They cleared the barn and rushed the giant. It was male, smooth-faced, young. The trouble-makers usually were. He looked up at the Companions before an arrow pierced his cheek. Another stuck suddenly from his chest, and when he got to his feet, he swung his club around his head, grunting and mumbling.

Ria and Farkas went for the giant’s knees, both wielding two-handed. The giant tried to stomp on them and they dove out of the way before circling back.

Farkas called out to Tavia, as the giant's club swung down in her direction. But as the club swung low to strike her in the chest, she leapt straight into to the air like a cricket. Higher than Farkas had ever seen a person jump without magic or potions. Tavia landed lightly and stabbed the giant's arm with an arrow. He howled and snatched its hand back.

Tavia drew her swords and joined Ria and Farkas; though she was far swifter. Darting in to slice and darting back before the giant could turn his attention to her. 

It was the work of moments to fell the creature and Aela was the one to slit its throat with her dagger killing it dead.

“I told you to use your bow,” Aela said.

Tavia cleaned her swords on the chaff. “You also told me not to hit any of you.”

Aela huffed.

Farkas heaved the giant onto its back. The chest was pierced with, now broken, arrows and Farkas was impressed by how many Tavia and Aela had managed to get into the giant before they closed the distance.

Aela pulled out one of the arrows and looked at it. “These are shit. I hope you didn't pay for them.”

Tavia’s face tightened as she continued cleaning her blade.

“You can’t expect to take enemies down with worthless weapons,” Aela continued still looking at the arrow wounds and unaware of Tavia’s expression.

“Yes, Aela," Tavia replied.

“Did I do all right?” Ria asked out of breath.

Aela ignored her.

Farkas said, “You got some pretty good blows in.” He prodded at the giant’s left leg. The lower leg was attached to the thigh by only a strip of flesh at the joint. “You more or less took him down at the knee. Good job.”

Ria smiled shyly at him. “Thanks, Farkas.”

He nodded. “But make sure to keep track of what’s around you. You nearly tripped over that rock.” He pointed at it with his sword. “If the giant saw that he would have caved your head in.”

Ria’s smile went away, but she nodded. “Yes, Farkas.”

That was why he liked her. She didn’t get mad when you told her how to do better.

His sword was red from hilt to tip. Farkas copied Tavia and took out a rag to clean the blade. Blood was a pain to clean after it dried into a sticky mess. The Pelagia Farm's hands came out of the main house and wandered over. The head farmhand was a wood elf named Nimreal.

“Thank you, Companions,” she said.

“You’re welcome,” Farkas replied.

Nimreal glared at the giant and then at the damaged field shaking her head. “If you speak with Severio he will arrange remuneration.”

“Good to hear,” Aela muttered.

“We’ll ask the guards to come out and help remove the body,” Farkas said.

“That would be appreciated,” Nimreal replied before calling out the rest of the hands to begin cleaning up. 

Farkas took out a square of cloth from his belt, drew his dagger and got on his knees. He cut off one of the giant’s filthy foot covering and went to work on harvesting the toes.

“What are you doing?” Tavia asked once he had the big toe off and on the rag.

Farkas didn’t look up. “The toes are good for potions. Vilkas usually wants them.”

“What does he use them in?” She did not sound disgusted, only curious.

“I never asked.” Farkas peered up at her and pulled a face. “I don’t want to know, actually.”

Tavia chuckled softly. “Understandable. They worth any money?”

“They’re hard to get, so Arcadia would probably pay you for them. You can take the other foot if you want. It’s your kill too.”

“Thank you,” she knelt next to him, watched for a moment as he wiggled the dagger into the joint and then sliced the middle toe off.

“That’s disgusting,” Aela said.

Farkas shrugged. She didn’t complain when Vilkas had potions in stock and saved the Companions the cost of buying them.

“We’re heading back,” Aela said. “I’ll find Severio.”

“All right then.”

It didn’t take long to remove the toes. Tavia knew what she was doing. Farkas felt bad about leaving the giant in the middle of the field for the farmers to deal with, so he and Tavia dragged it between the crops and onto the road.

“It’ll make it easier for the guards to get it onto a cart when they show up,” he explained.

Nimreal stopped her work and went back inside just as they were leaving. She returned with two bottles of mead, half a loaf of bread and some cheese. “That was very kind of you.”

“Don’t mention it.”

She handed the food over. “Severio won’t skimp, but it’ll be a day at least until the guards get off their backsides and move the body. You’ve saved us a lot of time.” She looked at Tavia, “You’re in with a good lot.” She patted Farkas on the shoulder, harder than one would expect for someone so small and went back to clearing the field and saving what they could.

Farkas took off his gloves, broke the bread and offered part of it to Tavia. Her stomach gurgled. 

“Oh, no thank you.”

Farkas’ brows knit. “She gave it to both of us.”

“I’m not in any condition to handle food,” She held up her hands and smiled wryly. Up to her bracers were covered in giant’s blood. 

“Aw shucks. Why don't you wash those in the stream.”

She nodded.

They passed by the barn and Tavia shouldered her pack as they made their way to the Whiterun River.

Tavia squatted on the bank, careful of the mud and dipped her hands in the water. She jerked them out.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s colder than I expected.” She plunged her hands into the river and rubbed them back and forth until the water around them was cloudy pink.

He handed her the bread and opened the linen to find that the cheese was already sliced and passed her half of it. They sat on some boulders and ate.

“Did you deal with Lemkil?” he asked.

She nodded. “He got the message.”

“Tough fight?”

“It wasn’t easy,” she said between bites.

Farkas smiled. “If it’s too easy there almost isn’t a point.”

She looked at him sideways.

“It just feels like bullying, then.”

Tavia paused. “I suppose.”

The giant hadn’t been that much of a challenge. Not for four Companions. Well, two companions, a whelp, and a new-blood. Aela was right that better weapons would make Tavia better, but Tavia seemed pretty damn good. Farkas couldn’t help but wonder how she got to be talented with terrible gear. Even her pack, which leaned against a rock sagging almost empty, looked beat up and threadbare.

Tavia’s face was swollen, especially over one eye and she looked stiff as she moved. But, she didn’t tell Aela no when got dragged along to fight the giant and Farkas admired that. He hoped she stayed.

Farkas thought about Thorold and how he felt about it. Worried. Afraid. Hurt that Avulstein was mad at him especially. He should try to do something. Try to do more. He didn’t know anything about Tavia, but she was willing to work and try hard even if the odds were against her. Or the odds  _had_ been against her. Maybe Tavia's luck was better now that she was with the Companions. Farkas decided that he would talk to Kodlak next time the Circle met. He’d ask to help look for Thorold rather than wait for Skjor to tell him what to do.

Tavia finished her bread, stretched her arms over her head and rolled her shoulders.

She turned towards Whiterun up on its hill. “I’d like to head back. I have the payout from the job and I want to get that to Vilkas soon.” She looked back at him and Farkas remembered how the guards had given her trouble the last time she tried to get back int the city.

Farkas stood. “Let’s go then.”

They walked up the road for a while before he said, “You didn’t do badly.”

“Thank you.” Tavia kept her eyes on the path.

“Aela wants us to be our best.”

Tavia blinked, then gave a tiny smile. “That’s good to hear. I assumed she didn’t like me.”

Farkas’ brows raised. “If Aela doesn’t like you, she just pretends you’re not there.”

Tavia cocked her head and looked like she was thinking. “I’ll bear that in mind.” She turned and smiled sweetly. It made Farkas’ face heat. They walked back to Whiterun with the sun slowly setting. The long grass of the tundra rustled and in the bugs clicked and chirped. Between Farkas and Tavia, there was comfortable silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments so far. I'm happy to hear that folks are enjoying this.
> 
> For those of you who read a different Chapter 4, I didn't like it, so I scrapped it. Such is the wonder of digital media. 
> 
> For those of you who are new, welcome to Chapter 4. Nothing unusual here. :-P


	5. New Blood

Whiterun's leaves had changed with the arrival of Hearthfire. But when Vilkas returned to the city with Ria, he was in too sour a mood to appreciate the reds and golds against the still-green leaves. They had barely rescued the kidnap victim in Falkreath. Ria, who was excelling at wielding alongsword, was not excelling at moving quietly _so as not to alert their enemies_. If Vilkas had not brought a plethora of potions, the nobleman would surely have died from his wound. The hostage was grateful for their help, not realizing that their blunder had nearly cost him his life. Vilkas, to his shame, intended to keep it that way.

He sighed through his nose and ignored Ria’s timorous glance as they crossed the market. The shops were all closed for the day, and the court was quiet. The city would soon wind down after the bulk of the fall crops were bought and sold. 

As a rule, Vilkas didn’t like the idea of  _sneaking_ up on his enemies. But sometimes running into a situation bellowing a battle cry would not win you accolades. Sometimes stealth was necessary. It had been years since the Companions had failed at a rescue mission and Vilkas shuddered at the thought of failing now while their numbers were so few. It would not help the Companions' reputation at all if they could not be relied on to complete a job.

On top of it all, Secunda was now beginning to wane. The pull of the smaller full moon had left Vilkas irritable and twitchy, especially since he could not change while he was anywhere near Ria.Masser, the larger, more powerful of the two moons, was calling to him now. He hoped that the Circle would all be home in time to change together.

He shoved open Jorrvaskr’s massive doors. Vilkas had wanted to take Tavia. See how she performed on a job. But when the missive arrived Vikas had to leave right away, and Tavia was away on a job.

 _Speaking of whom—_  

Tavia sat alone in the main hall.  She perked up as the doors opened and looked at Vilkas expectantly. The other whelps were nowhere to be seen. No doubt they would come running when Tilma set supper out, though.

“Yes?” he snapped.

Her gaze flickered over him. “It can wait until you’ve settled in.”

“What can wait?” Vilkas asked. What could she possibly want from him?

She hesitated. “I have the payout from my last job.”

“I’m sure the shops are, even now, itching for your custom.”

She stared at him placidly. “Like I said, it can wait until you’ve rested. I didn’t know you were out of town working.”

Vilkas pinched the bridge of his nose. “Come on, then.” To Ria, he said, “Ask Tilma to run a bath if you want one.”

“Yes, Vilkas,” Ria whispered before heading to the kitchens.

Tavia followed Vilkas mutely down to the Living Quarters. It seemed that Vilkas was the only Circle-member at home which explained why Tavia had waited by the door like a pup.

He placed his gear in his room before retrieving the ledger from inside the Companion’s coffer and settling at his desk. Vilkas pretended to examine his quill tip before sharpening it with a few flicks of his knife. Tavia didn’t react to his dithering, and her courteous silence made his efforts to rile her embarrassing. He took her coin purse and the job missive with no further fanfare.

After the Silverhand killed the last Circle Member who tended the ledgers, Vilkas took on the responsibility. 

Vilkas dipped his quill into the ink and scratched the entry in the ledger’s columns: Tavia’s name, her task and the amount paid to the Companions. Half went to the Companions and half went to Tavia. Straight-forward.

Things became complicated when there were more people on a job. Vilkas used to split the payout in half and leave it up to whoever ran the job to divvy the coin. But not everyone was as good at numbers as he was. Arguments broke out if people thought they weren’t getting their fair share. No one argued with Vilkas when he gave them their cut from a job.

Vilkas snuck a look at Tavia. She leaned against the doorjamb with her arms crossed. If the missive didn’t suggest that she’d been hiking for three or four days, he would say that she watched him lazily. But there were dark smudges under her eyes, and her lip looked swollen and there looked to be a hand-shaped bruise on her upper arm. Whoever she’d been fighting had grabbed her hard.

“Have you not gotten camping equipment yet?” he asked. 

“I haven’t scraped the coin together, sir?”

Tavia’s name was in six of the nine entries over the past three weeks since she’d first arrived. That included the giant at Pelagia’s farm which she got a small payout for. Aela had insisted.

“You’ve been quite busy,” Vilkas said after he’d finished the last of his notes.

“I prefer not to be idle.”

Vilkas dumped out the purse’s contents, counted out and replaced half of the septims and returned the bag to Tavia.

She nodded and stowed it in her limp pack. “Thank you.”

“Where do you sleep?” Vilkas asked.

“I manage,” Tavia replied absently. She looked over her shoulder to Farkas' room. “Is your brother around?”

“He’ll be back in a day or two.” At least Vilkas hoped.

She hummed. “Have you any work that needs doing?”

“You just got back.”

She shrugged and flicked a smile. “I don’t like to be idle.”

Vilkas leaned back in his seat. “You could train if you’re looking for something to do.”

“I’d rather not hang about, if it’s all the same to you, sir.”

 _Training is essential for all Companions_. “Aela could give you some pointers.” He nodded at her bow.

Tavia picked up her pack. “And I imagine it would cost me,” she said lightly. Too lightly.

Her armour was still as beat up and ragged as the day they met. Vilkas couldn’t help but wonder where all her money went if she wasn’t buying camping gear for Ysmir’s sake. Hopefully, she didn’t have a taste for moon sugar like the cats. That tended to be a more expensive habit than drink. Even Torvar could keep his gear in repair, and he barely worked. Though, Vilkas reasoned, that also meant Torvar barely left the hall to use his equipment in the first place.

“Aela’s training shouldn’t cost a thing,” Vilkas said.

Tavia’s brows rose. “Aela offers free training?”

“To outsiders, no.” Vilkas stood to return the ledger and the new coin to the chest just outside of his room. “But we train one another to stay sharp. We may stand back to back in a fight, it's not sensible to be stingy with fighting knowledge.”

"Is she around?”

“I don’t know.”

Tavia looked at him.

Vilkas waved a hand. “Aela comes and goes as she pleases. I’m not her keeper.”

Tavia fought a smile at his tone. “She works often?”

“Not especially.” Vilkas smiled back. The other whelps grumbled about how Tavia took all the work. But if they were eager for action, they didn’t show it.

But the downside to Tavia’s formidable work ethic was that Vilkas didn’t know her at all. She didn’t speak much outside of getting instructions and getting paid. She ate and drank under their roof. Though she declined to join the Companions at the Bannered Mare. Vilkas usually paid attention to the new arrivale, but she was a mystery to him. She was shrouded not in intrigue and deception, but in a polite, hardworking demeanour that did not require intervention and therefore, his attention. Vilkas still wanted to work with her.

As she turned to leave he said, “When Farkas returns, I may have a job you can join us on.”

She paused. “Join?”

“A bandit camp needs to be cleared out.”

She regarded him. “What kind of bandits?”

Vilkas arched a brow. “The robbing and murdering type. Does it matter?”

She shrugged. “I suppose not.”

“You’re not squeamish, are you?” As far as he knew, Tavia had only taken on honour jobs and animal clear-outs.

“I do know how to use my weapons, sir.” She said it mildly, and Vilkas longed to get an emotion from her. If only to see what was underneath the unflappable calm.

“But have you actually used them before? In a real fight?” Vilkas prodded.

“Yes.”

Vilkas expected her to say more but she didn't. The moment dragged on awkwardly. 

“Good," Vilkas said to escape. "You’ll be worth having around on the job.”

 

*********************

 

Aela had apparently been easier for Tavia to track and she left for a job to help a farmstead against a group of wolves before Farkas returned. Tavia hadn’t said anything to Vilkas before leaving. It rankled him, but he wasn’t Harbinger yet and didn’t have a right to demand information on the comings and goings of the Companions. Likely, she hoped to return in time for the job with Vilkas and Farkas. The farm was nearby. 

Farkas made it home in time for the full moon, barely. The job with Njada went more smoothly than Vilkas’ job with Ria. Farkas tended to be paired with Njada, who was a competent swordswoman, but whose prickly nature made her difficult to spend time with. Farkas was far more easy-going and harder to rile than anyone else in the Circle.

Three days after Vilkas spoke with Tavia, Masser finally became a perfect red circle in the night sky. The Circle met in the Underforge, coming in one at a time. They shed their clothing in silence until Kodlak spoke. 

“I had words with Jarl Balgruuf a few weeks back, and it might be worth sharing.”

Everyone stilled.

“He received a report that a dragon attacked and destroyed the city of Helgen. He didn’t entirely trust the messenger and asked me to have a look at it. To see if it was a military move instead. He was worried that Jarl Siddgeir taking offence if he sent troops into Falkreath.”

“And…?” Vilkas asked, enraptured by the word _dragon_. Even if it was a lie.

“Helgen was destroyed. I cannot say it was a dragon, but not even magic could destroy stone masonry in such a way.”

 

“So it could have been anything,” Skjor said.

“Yes. But Balgruuf wants to be ready regardless. I’ve never seen such destruction, not even during the War.  Everything was burned. Stone buildings destroyed. Whatever caused the damage was powerful.” Kodlak ran a hand through his hair. “The Jarl is working with Caius to devise a plan in case a dragon comes to Whiterun. From what he told me, it involves bucket chains and diverting water from the spring to control any fires. But he asked if the Companions can be counted on to fight for Whiterun’s safety.”

“Certainly,” Vilkas said.

Kodlak smiled and looked at each Circle member in turn. Everyone else nodded to a chorus of ‘ayes’and ‘yesses’.

“It’s settled then. We’ll need to let the others know, of course. Train them for larger foes. Maybe take them out to hunt a mammoth.” Kodlak rubbed at his knee and smiled sheepishly. "I'm not as familiar with the old lore as I suppose I should be. So I don't even know where to start with taking down a dragon."

Vilkas looked around at the Circle and saw that Aela’s expression looked bright. Excited. As though the chance of a new prey thrilled her. Vilkas felt the same way. Fighting a dragon was a thing of legends. If the Companions were to defeat one, it would bring honour to Jorrvaskr and all who lived there.

With thoughts of battles and epic ballads clambering in his mind, Vilkas changed.

 

 

Just before dawn, Vilkas clambered up the rocks to the under forge. He and Aela were the only two who could manage the climb up without turning back to their human shape and were faster than the others.

Vilkas squirmed through the last crevice and tumbled end over end into the Underforge. Aela snorted a laugh at him as she sat on her haunches, sill lupine. Vilkas gave a full body shake and shot her a baleful glare. Farkas was next to climb through the opening. Vilkas trotted over and sniffed him in his human shape. Farkas, Skjor and Kodlak would get about halfway up and change when the climb became too steep for their wolffish bodies to manage and required the use of hands.

Skjor was second. He had a scrape along his forearm but was otherwise intact. The wound was healing already. Kodlak took longer. Vilkas whined as he waited. Kodlak panted and huffed as he pulled through the gap and entered the Underforge. Vilkas, his human-self protesting, ran to Kodlak ears pinned and tail going practically spinning to investigate him. He had a skinned knee, and his nail was torn, but otherwise, he was all hale.

“Yes, Vilkas,” Kodlak said and patted him on the neck and rubbed at his knee. Vilkas looked at the knee. There was no cut, but Kodlak seemed to have trouble with it. So that wasn’t a problem.

Vilkas changed back, his face hot. The others ignored him. They never really cared if he acted like a puppy towards Kodlak, the Harbinger was his forebearer after all, but Vilkas always felt so dreadfully embarrassed when he returned to his human shape.

Aela said, “So the New Blood seems to be shaping up nicely.”

“Oh?” Kodlak said.

Vilkas chimed in, “She works a lot.” Kodlak had been away after all. He needed to be abreast on everyone's progress. 

Kodlak smiled. “I’m glad to hear that.”

Aela said, “I want to take her out to Irkngthand.”

That was met by silence.

Kodlak said, “You have never shown an interest in the New Bloods before.”

Aela shrugged. “Athis can’t shoot, Ria wants to fight with long-swords, and Njada just stands there like a wall until her foes tire. And I doubt she can keep up with me. Tavia is the first archer we’ve had in some time.”

Vilkas said, “I don’t think that’s wise.”

“What concern is it of yours?” Aela snapped.

Vilkas glanced around at the Circle. He wanted to take the New Blood out himself, for sure, but his more significant concern was that-- “You’ll leave her behind in the fight. You’ve never taken a New Blood out who hasn’t been out with Farkas or me,” he said as levelly as he could manage.

“I saw her work against that giant.” Aela arched a brow and smiled nastily. “Do you not think her capable? You tested her arm.”

Vilkas scowled. “She has skill. But you have never offered to work with a New Blood. Ever. They need, coaching.”

“How hard can it be? Tell them how to do it better and point them in the right direction. Besides, we need skilled warriors among our ranks. Not this riff-raff.”

Vilkas ran his hand through his hair. “Yes. But those are thin on the ground so we need to take what we can get.” That wasn’t entirely fair, Tavia was not untalented, but the point remained. “The War is seducing every able-bodied Nord who can hold a sword much less swing one. While we—“He gestured around the Underforge, “Get picked off by the Silverhand.”

He didn’t say that to be cruel, but it was the truth. Aela’s mother had been killed by Silverhand. As much as Aela grieved the loss, Vilkas and Farkas who’d grown up with Rael the Huntress in Jorrvaskr felt it more acutely than they dared to admit to her.

Vilkas looked at Farkas, “When we were lads, we had new people showing themselves to the Askar every two or three months.”

Farkas nodded in agreement.

Aela, who had looked irritated earlier, was angry now that Farkas had taken aside. She always complained that they ganged up on her.

Vilkas didn’t relent; Aela was used to getting her way. He said, “It’s one thing if the Companions die while on a job. It happens. Ysmir knows it happens. But it looks awful if a whelp dies when they’re with one of us.”

She shot him a look. “You think I’d just let her die out there?”

Farkas cut in, “You’re not patient with the New Bloods or the whelps or anyone outside of the Circle.”

Skjor snorted as he put on his small clothes.

Vilkas shot a look at Kodlak worried he’d find censure.

Unexpectedly, Kodlak said, very calmly, “What do you suggest then, Vilkas?”

Vilks huffed out a breath. “I don’t have anything to suggest—“

“So what was all the hubbub?” Aela said throwing up her hands.

“I worry that the girl will die on a simple errand because you did not think to mind her.”

“I don’t intend to treat her like a simpleton the way you treat Ria,” Aela said.

Vilkas bridled. “She is young. She is just eighteen winters, now. She could barely hold her stance when she first came to us. Of course, I’ve taken my time. You want me to throw her to the wilds?” He didn’t mention the incident with the nobleman. He didn’t dare.

Aela yelled, “You were younger than her when you performed your trail.”

Farkas cut in, “We lived in Jorrvaskr our whole lives. Ria’s mother was a farmer.”

Aela gave Farkas a dirty look but didn’t argue that. She pulled on her clothes, fuming.

“It seems that Vilkas’ concerns are not unwarranted,” Kodlak said after they stewed for a moment.

Aela looked ready to argue, but Kodlak said, “What do you think of this, Skjor? You’ve not said your piece.”

Skjor was leaning against the rock with his arms crossed. He was fully dressed. “Aela wants to take Tavia out, maybe mentor her, fine. I’m not interested, I think Vilkas should do some research on this dragon threat, and Farkas still needs to whip Torvar into shape.”

From the corner of his eye, Vilkas saw Farkas turn pink.

Skjor drummed his fingers on his forearm. “Aela, if you’re going to take her on her, you can’t just wander ahead without a word. Take Farkas with you.”

Farkas started, “I was hoping to—“ he glanced at Kodlak. “Thorold is still missing.”

“I’ll deal with that,” said Skjor.

“I can help.”

Skjor gave Farkas a look.

Farkas stared back for a beat before looking at his feet.

“It’s settled then,” Aela said testily.

Kodlak looked at Vilkas who nodded. He had hoped to take the INgktherand contract, but Skjor was right. Vilkas probably should do some research on dragons. They hadn’t been seen for centuries, as much as the prospect of killing one thrilled him, Vilkas didn’t know a thing about dragons outside of the stories. He might need to check the court libraries across the nine holds for information.

Aela left the Underforge and Vilkas, and Farkas turned to follow her.

Farkas hesitated and said, “I’ll catch up with you later.” He turned and went back to Kodlak and Skjor.

Vilkas slowed in gathering his things, straining to listen.

“Good night, Vilkas,” Kodlak called out, amused.

Vilkas’ cheeks flushed as he grunted a goodbye and left, but couldn’t help but wonder what Farkas of all people would want to talk to Kodlak about.


	6. Lessons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tavia goes out and Vilkas stays home. Both of them learn something new.

Tavia dressed silently in the dark bunk room amidst the Companions’ snuffles and snores. She grinned at the prospect of traveling north. She’s heard no news about the dragon, and Balgruuf seemed to have forgotten about her. With any luck, she’d have enough coin to be long gone from the Whiterun hold by the time Farengar complained about her lack of progress.

She shouldered her pack and went up to the main hall.

The Nord choices for breakfast food were far from Tavia’s tastes: thick leftover stew from the night before with fresh greens vegetables and loaves of bread. To her surprise, that morning, the smell of Tilma’s cooking made Tavia’s stomach growl.

 _I’m going native_ , she thought. _Soon I’ll be guzzling that awful mead and shouting at the top of my lungs while wearing a horned helmet_. 

Aela and Farkas sat at the long tables, with an impressive breakfast spread. Vilkas sat with them with his back to the stairs and Tavia hesitated. Aela had been clear that Farkas was the only other Companion joining them.

Vilkas glanced at the narrow windows where the sky was beginning to lighten. “Where is that girl? The sun will be risen by the time you’re off.”

“It is rather hard to tell the time of day from below ground,” Tavia said, pitching her tone to apologetic and making Vilkas flinch.

He rounded on her as she approached the hob to spoon out some stew.

She smiled deprecatingly. Found herself fighting a smirk but didn’t dare give in under the force of his glare.

“You get used to the Living Quarters,” Farkas said. “It’s dark all the time in winter anyway.”

Tavia nodded as though she knew that already. What she did know was the standard facts about the physical geography and economic outputs of Skyrim from her schooling and that the climate was “cold.” She had given no thought to the length of the day as the seasons changed in the far north of the continent. Not for the first time she questioned whether or not Skyrim was the best place to hide.

Vilkas looked her up and down. “Are you going in that?”

“Yes.” She would not be embarrassed by him.

“You’ll be cold,” he said.

“I’ll manage.” Tavia had spent a few winter months on Cyrodiil’s streets. She could manage a bit of cold. She didn’t like it, but she could manage.

Vilkas rose his brows and shrugged, a faint smile on his lips like he knew something Tavia did not. He went back to his conversation with the others, and Tavia sat down.

Despite his condescension, she found Vilkas interesting to listen to. Not to speak to. Of course, not. He asked far too many questions for her to talk with him conformably at any length of time. But he was an education when his attention was fixed elsewhere as he was described some ancient tomb or the alchemical properties of an obscure mountain plant or the dangers found when encountering a prevalent predator.

Tavia smiled at that. In her time at Jorrvaskr, Vilkas had, on at least two occasions said he needed to take a trip to Solstheim since he’d “killed one of every thing in Skyrim.” Tavia didn’t know where Solstheim was, but she wondered what Vilkas would say when he found out that dragons were flapping about laying waste to towns.

He turned to Tavia. “Have you ever fought a cave bear?”

Tavia chewed the stewed vegetables and thought back to her escape from Helgen with Ralof. “Once. But not up close.”

Aela smiled as she dragged bread through her remaining broth. “Picked it off with your bow as it charged, I’ll bet.”

Tavia nodded with a smile and didn’t elaborate. She’d shot the bear thrice while it slept. It never stood a chance.

“Do they not have bears in Cyrodiil?” Vilkas asked.

Tavia took a sip of her drink.

She said, “There are bears. Not as large as in Skyrim, of course.” That got a nod of approval from the trio. Tavia continued, “But one has to go deep into the wilds to find one. I’ve heard the bears in Skyrim are different in different regions. That the far north is home to white bears that are more ferocious. Is that true?”

“Oh certainly,” Vilkas said, and began another lecture.

She learned a lot from Vilkas, so she didn’t mind his chatter. Despite his tendency to taunt and tease, he had invited her out with the Companions to drink at the Bannered Mare. She had declined on both occasions.

 

As they left town, Tavia was surprised when Farkas unlocked the city’s gate using a key he wore around his neck.

“Do all Companions have keys to the city?” Tavia asked.

“The Circle have keys if they want them,” Aela said.

Tavia noted she wore nothing around her neck.

“Jarl Balgruuf and Captain Caius trust us with them,” Farkas said.

Tavia wondered, idly of course, what it took to be invited to join the Circle. 

Apart from saying where they were going, Aela had been succinct about their mission. Bandits were living in Dwarven ruins and harassing the people in a small settlement called Heljarchen. Heljarchen was in the north. Dress warmly. 

They carried the Circle's camping gear and Tavia assumed they would walk to the town. Tavia was alarmed when they approached the coach and the driver from her first day in Whiterun.

She nodded at Bjorlam whose eyes widened when he saw her. He didn’t say anything untoward, but Tavia kept her guard up the entire time they travelled north. She kept an ear on conversations he held with Aela and Farkas. She barely slept.

 

 

********

 

Vilkas entered Dragon’s Reach and nearly ran into one of the Jarl’s couriers. The lad seemed too focused on his task to bother with niceties as he barged out of the hall. As Vilkas rose up the stairs to the central court, he was surprised by an unseasonal din. Courtiers and nobles bustled to and fro alongside so many guards. The Whiterun Guard Sergeants, denoted by the better quality armour, debated in front of the throne. Balgruuf sat with his chin resting on his fist, listening. Vilkas slipped up the central court without drawing their attention. He was, unfortunately, in Dragon’s Reach to see one person that day.

“Good afternoon Farengar,” Vilkas said as he knocked on the study’s door frame.

Farengar’s head snapped up from his writing. He looked at Vilkas for a beat before asking, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

Farengar wore his brown mage’s robes with the hood on at all times even, ridiculously, indoors. His expression was often hidden, though his tone never masked his feelings.

Vilkas walked over to the desk. “Have you heard the news about the dragon?”

“You’re just now finding out about it?” Farengar closed his notebook book swiftly. His ink could not have dried.

Vilkas shrugged. “We’re very busy in different parts. We can’t know everything all the time.”

“I’m sure.”

Vilkas and Farengar stared at one another.

Vilkas asked, “How is your research faring?”

“It goes well. When I’m not interrupted.”

“Is there anything The Companions can assist you with?”

Farengar dropped his quill into the inkwell. “Balgruuf and I have an arrangement.”

Vilkas' brows rose. “I didn’t think you took an interest in crawling around ruins.” Farengar was a theoretical mage, and while Vilkas knew first-hand that Farengar was proficient at destruction magic, the Whiterun Court Mage was not one for ‘fieldwork’.

Farengar sniffed. “I have employed a local adventurer to recover what I need."

“You must deem them quite talented.”

“Balgruuf believes she is well-suited to the task.”

That gave Vilkas pause. Farengar was a sheltered know-it-all, but Balgruuf was astute. Few things slipped by him, and if he believed this mercenary to be competent, she probably was.

“Do let us know if you need additional assistance,” Vilkas said.

“Looking for more glory to the drinking hall?” Farengar sneered.

Vilkas stared at Farengar steadily and crossed his arms to mask the way his nails curled into claws.

He said, carefully, “Kodlak has made an oath to Balgruuf, that the Companions will assist Whiterun if ever the need arises. If the beast that destroyed Helgen comes to Whiterun, we’ll need all the fighters we have, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I’m sure the noble Companions will be the city's salvation.”

Vilkas narrowed his eyes.

Farengar snapped, “What is it you want, Vilkas? I’m very busy at the moment.”

“I came to offer our services,” Vilkas said. He dropped his arms. His wrists tingled, but his nails had receded. “Barring that, I would like to borrow any books you have on dragons.”

“What for?”

“To read them.”

“I need my resources now.”

“All of them. At the same time? At this very moment?”

“Check the Jarl’s library. I think he has a few that might be useful to you.”

“Because they’re useless to you or because they’re not what you’re interested in?”

Farengar didn’t meet Vilkas’ gaze as he shuffled papers around his desk. “I imagine you’d find them interesting. You know the way, Companion.”

“Are you certain there is nothing you have—“

“I suggest you check the library. I have nothing to loan you at the moment.” Farengar turned and went over to his alchemy table to check on something that looked ready to boil over and that was that. 

 

 

The library lay behind the central court in the private council chambers. Vilkas made eye contact with Iraleth as he walked past the throne. Iraleth narrowed her eyes but nodded in acknowledgement and Vilkas continued. She knew he was at Dragon’s Reach and she could guess where he was going.

The Jarl’s library was modest. Not so vast as a college, but a useful repository of local lore and history. No one had reported dragons for centuries, and apart from the Blades, Vilkas didn’t know of anyone who hunted them. Vilkas scowled. Farengar was the closest expert of any standing.

Vilkas skimmed the titles on the spines and pulled out a chronicle of the Fourth Era after the Oblivion Crisis. He flipped through the pages as he stood and frowned. The text focused heavily on the events of the Great War, highlighting the Aldmeri Dominion’s movements. Unsurprisingly, once the war was over, the writer described in great detail, the construction of the Aldmeri Embassy in Solitude in the twenty years after the signing of the White Gold Concordat. Vilkas replaced the book on the shelf.

He grinned as he spotted a more promising work from the shelf, _Olaf and the Dragon_. Of course, Balgruuf would keep a book about his ancestor, Olaf One-Eye, in the library. The patio in the north of Dragon’s Reach was where Olaf had imprisoned and slain the great dragon, Numinex. The dragon’s skull hung on the wall behind the Jarl’s throne as proof. Vilkas could not help but imagine what it would be like to have a dragon’s skull adorn Jorrvaskr’s rafters.

He pulled the book from its place on the shelf and cradled it as he kept searching for other records of the First Era. There were none. Nor were there records of the Second or Third Era.

The tale of Olaf and the Dragon was a story every Nord child knew. It was one of those house tales mothers told the children in the dead of winter. Though, Vilkas thought, rarely shared by the bards in verse.

The story was one Vilkas knew well. Or so he thought. As he read on, he realized that the book’s author had recorded several versions of the tale from across Skyrim. The story from the Eastern holds, closest to the legendary Mount Anthor, detailed the way Numinex slew farmers and livestock for years, warriors, no better than farm hands, climbed Mount Anthor to slay the dragon and were never heard from again. The stories from the west focused on the civil war dividing the province, not unlike the Stormcloak Civil War with the struggle for succession to the High Throne in Solitude. Vilkas had never considered how Olaf’s promise to kill the dragon would win him political power. Such concerns seemed at odds with such an esteemed warrior.

The stories from the south and plains of the province were most like the one Vilkas grew up hearing from Tilma at Jorrvaskr, Fralia Greymane and Bergritte Battleborn. The plains story went: 

Olaf the Young from our noble clans climbed  
Seven Thousand Steps to the Grey Beards’ abode.  
Olaf the Wise returned from the World’s Throat  
To his fair cities and plains drenched in blood.

Olaf wept, and he wailed and he tore out his hair  
He sought the council of some who survived.  
“T’was Numinex, the dragon, from his den in the north  
Swooped down to feast,” the broken men cried.

 Olaf said, “I swear by my blood and the strength of the land,  
The beast Numinex will pay for his crimes.  
But from you, who remain, I require a cage  
For the creature is cunning, but we can be wise.

Construct me a yolk of your strongest of steel,  
From Kynareth’s fires, yon Skyforge.”  
And the people they rallied and rushed to their task  
To fashion a prison for their bestial scourge.

 And Olaf did travel with his warriors brave.  
They raced under both sun and moons’ light.  
They scaled Anthor’s peak to the seat of the beast.  
At dawn, Olaf challenged the dragon to fight.

Numinex smile. “Not the first nor the last  
to die by the might of my fires.  
On your flesh I will feast, your sorrow to drink  
And your bones will become your death pyre.”

The dragon bore down with the beating of wings,  
Both dragon and man’s blood was spilt.  
Olaf’s fellows they witnessed and waited to charge  
And slay the dragon if its promise fulfilled.

At sundown, Olaf stumbled, and Numinex swung  
With the whip of his tail that struck true.  
And Olaf the Wise lost one of his eyes,  
The dragon redoubled, its vigour renewed.

 _Fire_ growled Olaf, like the great Tongues of old  
He threw aside his axe and bore only his shield  
And Numinex the beast was thoroughly beat.  
The Dragon-shout, Olaf’s weapon to wield.

Bound Numinex did they to an oxen cart mighty  
Made ready at the foothills of Anthor.  
To the west they returned, Whiterun’s great fields of gold  
For twelve days and twelve nights, they sojourned.

The people obeyed brave Olaf’s command  
They made a yolk to imprison the fiend.  
Olaf carted the beast to Whiterun Hill’s peak  
With a final heave, his foe’s fate was sealed.

The people of Whiterun praised their new Jarl.  
With his Shout and his quick-witted thinking  
The dragon was beaten and bound in the palace  
And Solitude claimed Olaf the High King

 

Vilkas smiled at the memory of the tale. That was quite close to the version Farkas sang when he had enough to drink. It always made Eorland smile, to know that Skyforge steel bound a dragon for execution.

The writer went to great lengths to document the story using maps, illustrations of dragons, though Ysmir knew what he used for references. The final chapter of the book made Vilkas frown when the author presented his interpretation of the tale.

Vilkas reared at the passage, “It's a story of surpassing heroism, in which a resourceful and worthy Nord does battle with a truly terrifying adversary and emerges victorious by yelling him into submission. The only way in which this could have been even more of a Nordic tale would be if Olaf beat Numinex in a drinking contest.”

Vilkas flipped back to the book’s cover. The author’s name was Adonato Leonetti marked him clearly as an Imperial. He had no understanding of Skyrim, or he’d know the power of the dragon-shouts, the thu’um.

Vilkas set aside his annoyance for a moment and considered the writer’s point: all of the stories of Olaf’s battle with Numinex, include the thu’um. Was that the only way to defeat a dragon? Learning thu’um took years of study, meditation and practice. The dragons were here now, and as far as Vilkas knew, the Greybeards at the peak of High Hrothgar had not accepted visitors for a long time.

He scanned the shelves again, hoping to find anything else of use. Something unusual caught his eye. _Harbingers of the Companions_ , the cover read in embossed leather. His heart leapt at seeing the Companions name in print. He pulled the tome from the shelf, and it indeed was a tome. Heavy as an ingot and as thick as his forearm, the old pages were yellow with age but barely worn.

The door of the central court opened.

“I had wondered what you were up to back here?” Jarl Balgruuf said.

Vilkas bowed his head. “My Jarl.”

“What do you have there?”

Vilkas proffered the book to Balgruuf. Iraleth stood behind the Jarl’s shoulder, watched Vilkas impassively. He had spent many years in Dragon’s Reach’s library when he needed a break from the Battleborn and Greymane antics even before Balgruuf took over the throne. Farkas went along with everything and loved the company, but sometimes Vilkas needed quiet which could not be found even in Jorrvaksr’s Living Quarters. His presence in Whiterun’s Library was not an unusual sight. 

“Ah,” Balgruuf said examining the record. “I’m surprised you have not found this earlier.”

“Have you had it all this time?” VIlkas too was surprised he had not found the book before.

“I believe so,” Balgruuf said as he flipped through the pages. “You are, of course, welcome to bring it to Jorrvaskr. I imaging Kodlak would like to read this copy. The records are rather interesting.”

Vilkas smiled. “Thank you, Jarl.”

Balgruuf leaned his hip against the nearest table. “Is that what you came to the library for?”

“I had hoped to find some information about dragons. Kodlak told us about Helgen. The Companions will aid Whiterun in an attack.”

Iraleth asked, “All of them?”

“Of course,” VIlkas replied, frowning.

She nodded incredulously and said no more.

“Have you found anything of use?” Balgruuf asked.

Vilkas hesitated and proffered _Olaf and the Dragon._

“Ah. Yes, I remember that one.”

“The author did a good job of collecting the tales from all over the province. But he doesn’t understand our histories. And that business with the Bard’s College slander.” Vilkas shook his head.

Balgruuf shrugged. “The events happened in the First Era; it’s impossible to know what really happened.”

Vilkas’ brows rose.

Balgruuf smiled. “I am not offended by differing opinions of some long-dead ancestor. We all have our paths to walk and whether that path is agreeable is a matter of perspective.”

Vilkas hesitated.

Balgruuf continued, “I’m certain Farengar has many valuable tomes on—“ he must have caught VIlkas’ expression because he frowned. “I take it he would not loan them to you.”

“No, sir,” Vilkas replied, embarrassed.

“I will speak with him. Though I’m sure, you have someone in your ranks who with knowledge of dragons.”

“No, sir. Not even Skjor or Kodlak has seen one. Though they know of the Blades. And their slaughter.” Vilkas grimaced. “I imagine the Thalmor will be cursing themselves when they hear news of the dragons’ return.”

Balgruuf gave Vilkas a confused look. “No one among you has seen a dragon?”

“No, sir. Nothing was recorded since the start of the Fourth Era.”

Balgruuf blinked and Vilkas at once felt uneasy. He was sure that was correct.Maybe he should borrow the Fourth Era history book and read it more closely. He’d never heard of dragon sightings at the least, and he tended to know about these things.

Balgruuf said slowly, “Of course.”

“Is there something—“

“No. It’s been a long day. You are welcome to bring the Harbinger’s volume to Jorrvaskr. I’m sure Kodlak would find it interesting reading.”

“Thank you, Jarl.”

Balgruuf smiled distractedly and went on his way to his private quarters. Vilkas looked out of the nearest window and realized that the sun had set. He blinked in shock and returned to Jorrvaskr cradling the Companions’ history in his arms.

Perhaps the book would provide an interesting read for the nights when Kodlak was up late.

 

********

 

 

On the third and final day of the journey to Heljarchin, the cart stopped unexpectedly jolting Tavia from another half-doze. 

Bjrolam opened the waxed linen flap to the back of the carriage. “There seems to have been a skirmish, and the road’s blocked.”

Aela huffed and squirmed through the opening to the front of the carriage

Tavia didn’t move. _A fight between who?_

Aela pulled her head into the carriage and stomped to the back, her face pinched. She smacked Farkas on the thigh as she passed. “Let’s clear these bodies.”

Farkas opened his eyes blinked blearily and lurched to his feet to shuffled out of the carriage, bent at the waist to duck beneath the cover.

Tavia gasped when she rounded the horses. Dead bodies blocked the road. Imperials and Stormcloaks, by the look of their armour and blue sashes. Tavia swallowed. She wondered if the survivors would draw the same conclusions as Balgruuf had when first seeing her cuirass.

She followed Farkas and Aela’s lead and dragged the bodies from the road and lay them neatly in the brush bordering the paving stones, arms crossed over their chests, where possible, though many were stiff in death. Tavia did her best not to recoil. It was hard to tell who had won. 

Aela and Farkas had turned back to the coach to argue in whispered voiced and though Tavia longed to eavesdrop, she couldn’t come up with a plausible excuse. Tavia worked her way down the road and around a corner. With the Companions’ backs to her, Tavia managed to pocket a few rings and small jewellery from the dead after dragging them from the road.

Around the bend and a small hillock, Tavia froze in her tracks.

Stormcloak soldiers, blue sashes bright in the afternoon sun, kneeled before an Imperial Officer in steel armour. His short sword dripped as he stalked to the nearest rebel who tipped her head back to look at him.

Tavia forgot how to breathe.

 _Hide_ , her thoughts screamed.

She crouched in the grass and started a stumbling way back to the cart.

A legionnaire barred her path. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Tavia stood. “I’m just a traveller, sir.” Memories of Helgen flooded back to her. Memories of her capture at the border flooded back.

“Sneaking about like that?”

“I didn’t want to interrupt.”

“Is that so?” The soldier, an Imperial man with a bandaged arm, looked her up and down and stepped closer. “Where’s your gear, traveller?”

“I travelled by carriage.It’s just down the road.”

He narrowed his eyes. “Maybe we should go see the Captain.” He made to grab her, and she stepped back.

“That won’t be necessary.”

Behind Tavia came a heavy, wet sound and a scream. Another blow. Silence. 

Tavia’s swords were on her waist, but she didn’t dare draw it.

In Cyrodiil, her Doyen, her trainer had warned her, _Never draw a sword on a guard or soldier. It will be an excuse to run you through_.

She sprang to escape past him and to the carriage, but he caught her around the waist and bore her to the ground.

Tavia drove her elbow into the soldier, backhanded him.  He released her and she squirmed from his grasp and onto her feet.

Her heartbeat thundered. The soldier grabbed her by the calf, toppling her to her knees.

“Hey!” Farkas rounded the corner. “What are you doing?”

He wore only his leather gambeson, but it was excellent workmanship. Better than what the foot soldiers wore for complete armour. Farkas also had his sword out.

“She’s a Stormcloak,” the soldier said from behind her.

“I’m not,” Tavia replied, appalled at the quaver in her voice. 

“She’s aCompanion,” Farkas said. His voice’s dangerous edge was shocking enough to snap Tavia out of her panic.

The Imperial Captain caught up to them. There was an open cut across his face from forehead to jaw. “What’s going on?”

“She’s a Stormcloak spy,” the soldier said. He still held onto her leg. Tavia did not kick him. Not with so much steel waving about and nowhere on the plains to really hide. No buildings to duck into, no sewers to scramble down.

Aela approached. “Since when does Ulfric Stormcloak allow Redguard foreigners into his little army? _Skyrim for the Nords,_ right?” She put her hand on the soldier's arm and said softly, “Let go.”

After a beat he released Tavia. “But her armour.”

The Captain looked Tavia up and down and raised his brows in question.

Tavia dusted her knees. “I bought it in Bruma before I came over. But I can see now why it cost so little money.”

The captain asked, in a voice that sounded worn to the bone, “Why run?”

Tavia gestured at the headless bodies behind the Imperials. “You were cutting people’s heads off.”

“Stormcloak traitors,” the captain replied.

“Does it matter?” Aela asked. The captain looked at her, glanced at Aela’s waist where the Companion’s wolf emblem sat, similar to the rest of the Circle’s heavy armour.

Tavia put on her most wide-eyed youthful expression, not too far from the truth of her fear. The captain stared at her for a moment and said with a half-bow, “My apologies Companions. We’ve all had a long fight.”

Tavia looked at the man more closely and realized that he must be at least half-Nord. He was tall and fair-skinned enough.

“But Captain?” the soldier pleaded.

“It’s been a long day for us all. And there was a misunderstanding.”

“But the armour?”

“Anyone can wear a scale cuirass, lad," the captain replied. 

Aela said, “Now that we’ve cleared the bodies you left on the road like carrion, are you going move that lot so we can be on our way?” Aela pointed at the executed Stormcloaks.

The Captain grimaced and inclined his head. “We will do our best.”

“I’ll help,” Farkas said, to Tavia’s surprise.

But that gesture and Farkas sheathing his sword seemed to cool the mood and Tavia followed Aela back to the cart. Tavia could not be near the soldiers. Not after how the Imperial soldiers had beaten her insensate at the border. She’d come to on that cart with Ulfric Stormcloak and Ralof in a panic, fearing more pain and alarmed that her possessions and clothing we all gone. Had she been alone, she would have wept.

“Damned, Imperials,” Aela muttered. “We’re done here Bjorlam. Can you pass with the horses?”

“Aye,” he replied. He gave Tavia a long look before clucking at the horses to urge them forward. Tavia did not like horses, but even she could see that the animals were not happy about being near so much blood. Tavia and Aela climbed onto the carriage as it trundled forward. Farkas hopped on a few moments later looking relieved. Tavia shelved that observation for later.

She sat very still on the ride over willing her limbs not to tremble.

When Tavia arrived in Bruma, the northernmost region of Cyrodiil, she possessed several thousand septims, exquisite armour, custom weaponry and a new name. Before crossing the border into Skyrim, her generous khajit hosts had gently suggested that perhaps they should pass the border without her. Tavia being a  _wanted_ thief might impede their progress. 

Tavia was hurt by the suggestion, but could not begrudge them. They had protected her and taught her some skills in their journey north from the Imperial City. In the end, they were doing a favour for Tavia's doyen by allowing her to travel with them. Favours could only extend so far. 

Whether leaving the caravan been a mistake for her or a boon for the convoy, Tavia didn’t know. But soon after parting ways she’d gotten lost in the wilds, stumbled into an Imperial encampment at the border and it went downhill from there. The only thing the soldiers left her with was her name.

Farkas said, “We’re near the border between Dawnstar and Windhelm.” Her gaze snapped to him, and he looked worried. “You get more fights at the edges of Windhelm Hold.”

Tavia nodded. “That makes sense.”

“You all right?”

“Yes, thank you.” Tavia smiled.

“They shouldn’t have attacked you like that.” His brows knit in confusion/ “But you could have called us for help.”

Tavia looked at her hands. They weren’t trembling. “I didn’t think to do so.”

“You’re a Companion. You’ll always have help in a fight,” Farkas replied. 


	7. Trust

Tavia was still jittery when the carriage’s rumble changed from the rhythmic thunking of the main road’s giant paving stones to the rattle of small bricks and gravel. She peered through the carriage’s tarp and found the villagers’ stares unsettling. She flicked the cover closed and glanced at the Aela and Farkas.

“They don’t look happy to see us,” Tavia said uncertainly.

Aela shrugged.

Farkas said, “They’ll be glad once they know who we are.”

Tavia nodded. Merely claiming to be a Companion opened doors. It had happened time, and again over the past few weeks that she’d been running "honour jobs", as Vilkas called them. But seeing an Imperial Captain _defer_ to the Circle opened Tavia’s eyes to the level of respect that the group commanded. Opened her eyes to the level of protection the Companions’ banner could provide. 

The cart trundled to a stop, and they hopped out in front of the Nightgate Inn, the wood sign rocking in the breeze. Aela paid Bjorlam while Tavia did her best to appear useful and unloaded the camping gear. When she dragged Farkas’ suit of armour, bundled in cloth and twine, from the cart she gasped at the weight; her arms were nearly yanked from their sockets when she tried to lower it to the ground.

Farkas caught the armour before it hit the ground and hefted it with barely a grunt. “Need to be careful with that.”

Tavia frowned and rolled her shoulders. _How could he walk in all that steel, much less fight in it?_

The other bags were easy enough for Tavia as she ignored the murmurs from the watching villagers.

After the trio carted their gear into their rented room, they returned to the main hall for supper, and Tavia’s steps faltered when she saw the gathering crowd, all crammed into the smokey tavern.

The innkeeper stepped forward and fidgeted with his apron-hem. “Begging your pardon, Companions, but the others wanted to be around to explain things.”

Tavia belatedly followed Farkas and Aela as they sat and faced the crowd.

Aela nodded. “Go on, then.”

The innkeeper nodded and explained the village’s plight with interjections from the others.

The short of it was that bandits from the mountain had been harassing the families all summer. By solstice, they’d had enough and pooled what they had to send some of their hunters on a journey to the Dawnstar capital in the north.

But the Jarl sent the hunters back empty-handed, claiming that Helhjarchen was too small and too far south to afford to send a contingent without aggravating someone.

The last time the bandits raided they stole the village’s food stores. This late in the fall the villagers had no chance to produce more food in time for the coming winter and had no valuables to barter for more.

Aela listened arms crossed, impassive. She asked occasional questions. _Where did the bandits come from? How many were there?_ Farkas said nothing, his brows knit in concentration, or sympathy.

Aela thanked the villagers for the information and promised to leave at first light to attend to the bandits and recover their goods. Tavia’s brows rose at the collective sigh from just Aela’s promise. 

Tavia unlaced her boots and sat cross-legged on the nearest bed, grateful for a chance to rest her backside on something softer than a plank to wood. Farkas took the room’s chair, and Aela paced. 

Tavia picked at her leggings and asked a question that had puzzled her during the villagers’ tale, “If the bandits took all their money, how did they intend to pay us?”

Aela said, “They probably have some things buried. Heirlooms and the like It’s only half our usual pay, but they promised the rest once we completed the job. If we recover what the bandits stole.”

Tavia nodded, but surprised by how seriously nords took mere promises. 

“Inkgerthand is the most likely hideout in those mountains.”

Farkas said, “It’s is a pain to get to. Especially in low light.” He looked at Tavia, she stared back.

“My night vision is fine.”

Farkas nodded. “All right, then.”

Aela stared out the window. “I’m going to take a look around. See if I find anything interesting.”

Tavia perked up. “I could scout along with you.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Aela turned to leave. “I’ll be back later.”

“You’re going now?” Farkas asked, shocked.

“Yes, now. Don’t wait up,” Aela called over her shoulder.

Farkas said, “I don’t think—“

Aela arched a brow at Farkas. He fell silent.

She left without another word, and Tavia sagged at the missed opportunity.

 

After several moments of silence, Farkas sighed and said, “Come on.”

Tavia trailed behind him as he left the room, sat at a table in the inn’s great open hall and waved at the barmaid for supper. 

Tavia ordered a drink to give herself something to do. Unfortunately, the cheapest thing was the ubiquitous mead. She thanked the tavern girl graciously and accepted the drink. Farkas placed a hand on her wrist when she reached for her coin purse. 

“We’ll get that.” He looked at the barmaid. “I’ll pay up at the end of the night.”

“Of course,” she said and left.

Farkas’ generosity was a far cry from Tavia’s scrounging and flirtations for food and drink since she'd arrived in Skyrim. 

“Thank you,” she said.

Farkas nodded and smiled, seemed content to listen to the bard strum softly. Whatever irritation he held over Aela’s attitude now banished.

The barmaid placed their stew on the table with a smile. It was too salty and Tavia couldn’t identify the grey meat which was tough and gamey. Her gaze flicked to Farkas as he hunched over his meal and wolfed it down. “May I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Why did you join the Companions?”

“We didn’t join. We grew up in Jorrvaskr. It’s home.”

 _That explains your table manners._ “You and Vilkas’ parents were Companions?”

“Not exactly.”

She waited. When Farkas watched the crowd and took a swill of mead rather than elaborate Tavia said, “Growing up in Jorrvaskr must have been exciting.”

He smiled. “People were always coming and going. Bringing home trophies and stories.”

“You must have learned so much living with warriors all your lives.”

Farkas nodded. “The Circle always had a lot to teach.”

Tavia didn't know if she could have such a conversation with Vilkas. He would fix all his attention on her with his sharp gaze and would probe her with questions for every answer he offered.  

While the brothers were certainly different in temperament, they shared commonalities. They were both easy on the eyes, for example. She watched the way Farkas’s biceps bulged under his tunic as he brought the mug to his lips. Tavia swallowed some of her awful sour-sweet mead to mask her gawking.

As it grew dark villagers trudged in. They drank silently and tensely from their tankards like people with very large sorrows to drown. Nightgate Inn was so unlike the noisome revelry in the Bannered Mare.

“There used to be more of us,” Farkas said suddenly, soberly. 

“More Companions or more in the Circle?”

“Both,” he replied.

Tavia waited.

Farkas shrugged. “People leave sometimes. They want a lover or a family and Jorrvaskr isn’t the place for that. Or they die.”

His frankness threw her. She blinked, floundered, “That must be hard.”

“Yeah,” he frowned then shrugged. “But we’ll see each other again in Sovengard.”

Fortunately, Farkas was watching the small crowd grumble and chatter. He didn’t see the way Tavia's brows shot up.

He continued, “We miss them, though.”

Tavia was not familiar with the Nord afterlife and how it differed from the Dream Sleeve. Farkas looked at her. Something must have shown on her face.

“Do you uh--"  He frowned. “Sovengard is where Nords go after they die. If you didn’t know.”

“I assumed that’s what you meant.”

He watched her shyly. “Is there somewhere— Do Redguards have a place they go? When they die?”

Tavia hesitated. “We call it the Far Shore.”

He turned to face her fully. “I’ve never heard of it. What is it like?”

“Warm,” she said dryly.

Farkas laughed and looked at her expectantly. 

Tavia looked away first. “There’s not much to it. It’s just a place that people go when they die. If they can.” Tavia didn’t want to get into the stories her mother used to tell her. They were long and complicated and made her homesick. “What is it like in Sovengard ?”

Farkas scratched his head. “I don’t know what the weather is like. But there’s lots of food and drink and a celebration forever.” He looked at her, “Is there food and drink in the Far Shore?”

Tavia frowned in recollection. “I don’t think so.”

“That doesn’t sound— uh, fun.”

She smiled at him. “I honestly don’t remember. They were stories from when I was a girl. I remember that there is no hunger and no thirst. I assumed then that there was no need for food or drink.”

“What do people do then?”

 _Wait for the end of things. No, that is too morbid_. “Meet with their ancestors. Fight if one enjoys that kind of thing. There’s not supposed to be any pain, so I’m not sure who’s fighting who and why. But that’s what the stories said.”

Farkas grinned, his expression looked at once boyish. “That sounds more like it.”

Tavia rolled her eyes over-dramatically, and Farkas laughed.

“It sounds a bit like Sovengard. Except for there being no food or drink.”

“Yes, but Sovengard might be cold.”

“Nords can deal with the cold, but it’s not comfortable. We stay indoors if it’s really nasty. I don’t think Sovengard’s cold.”

“Maybe not for you.” She smirked.

Farkas cocked his head. “Are you cold now?”

Tavia blinked. “Not really. No.”

“Because climbing up that mountain is going to be chilly this time of year.”

Tavia pulled a face. “Your brother made a point of reminding me that I’m underdressed. Alas, I cannot do anything about that at the moment.”

Farkas fell silent. Tavia cursed herself for snapping at him. But she was frustrated having her financial woes pointed out again and again did not help.

Farkas cleared his throat. “I could lend you my cloak for the climb.”

“And what will you wear?”

Farkas shrugged. “When I’ve got all my armour on, I have to worry about getting too hot. Even in the middle of winter.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t mind.”

Tavia, her sense of self-preservation at war with her pride, relented. “That’s very generous of you.”

Embarrassed, she did not ask him any more questions. She might not be able to impress the Companions with adequate armour and clothing, but she knew how to fight.

 

 

********

 

 

Farkas waited for Aela until late in the night and felt annoyed when the room door opened and there was no sound from the inn. The villagers had all gone home. 

“You’re up late,” Aela whispered when she saw him.

“You took long,” he said.

“What of it Shield Brother?”

They both looked at Tavia who lay still in the bed. She didn’t move, and they didn’t think she was awake, but…

Aela said, “They’re holed up in Inkgerthand. And there are more bandits than the people said. So either the group attracted new fighters or these villagers can’t count in the dark.”

“They were scared.”

Aela grunted. She shed her clothing and slipped into the third bed without another word.

Farkas lay awake. “You pick anyone off?”

“No. I want the new blood to do some work tomorrow. See what she’s made of.”

 

Farkas woke when Aela kicked his bed then began lighting candles. Farkas shook Tavia’s shoulder. She jerked in alarm. He backed up to give her space, and she relaxed when she saw it was him. She scrubbed at her face and rolled up into a sitting position with a jaw-cracking yawn.

They dressed, ate a quick field ration of bread, cheese and salted meat and slipped out of the inn.

Once outside, Tavia gasped. Farkas’ hand flew to his sword until he got a look at her and how she blinked in shock and rubbed at her arms.

 _Oh_. _The cloak._  Farkas pulled it from his pack and held it out to her. She put it on and grimaced when she saw how much it dragged behind her.

“I don’t think this will work,” she said reaching for the clasp to take it off.

“Yes it will” 

He stepped closer and adjusted the fabric around the clasp so that the hood was larger and frankly silly-looking, but the hem was clear of the ground. Farkas didn’t care about the cloak getting dirty. Dirtier. He cared about Tavia tripping over the hem.

“You two done yet?” Aela asked.

Tavia leaned away to heed Aela’s call.

“Wait.” Farkas tightened his grip on the cloak.

She stilled as he finished the closure and tugged on it to make sure it was secure. “There.”

“Thank you,” she said softly her eyes lowered.

Farkas didn’t see why she was embarrassed. Companions shared things all the time.

 

Tavia walked between Aela and Farkas along the trail up the mountain. She’d spoken the truth the night before, her vision in low light was quite good. Aela didn’t bother warning her about rocks and roots, but Tavia stepped as lightly as a mountain goat. Farkas wondered what she’d done for a living in Cyrodiil.

 

They reached the ruins as the sun began to rise. The pink light from the east lit up the whole bowl of the site. Aela took a peek around and then ducked back into cover gesturing them to follow.

“There are about twenty-five maybe thirty of them. A bigger encampment than we normally would take on with just the three of us.” She looked at Tavia. “You take the eastern edge, and I’ll take the west. We can pick off most of them before they know what’s hit them. Farkas, you come in from the south and take anyone who wants to play hide and seek. Draw them out if you can.”

Farkas nodded. If there were two archers at height who could pick off any of their archers, Farkas had little reason to worry. 

“Any questions?” Aela asked.

“No, ma’am,” Tavia replied and slid on her helmet. Farkas did the same.

“Good. Let’s get this done.”

Aela and Tavia drew their bows and crept away in opposite directions. Farkas slowly picked his way down the slope to the ruin’s entrance and waited.

If he listened carefully, he could hear the thuds of things, people, falling to the ground. It was several minutes before someone from inside yelled, “Intruders!’

That was Farkas’ cue.

 

 

The fight was short. Tavia may not have quality gear, but bandit after bandit fell from the eastern arrows. Few arrows missed.

Striking at dawn was a boon. The bandits were hungover, confused and disorganized this early in the day.

When Inkgerthand fell quiet, and it seemed that everyone was dead or injured, Farkas finished off those around him.

Aela said behind him, “That went smoother than expected.”

Farkas started. “Where’s the girl?”

“On her way down.”

Farkas gave Aela a look, and Aela arched a brow.

“She’s fine. She can look after herself.”

Farkas finished his task with Aela working beside him. It was one thing to injure someone in the heat of battle, and another thing to leave them to die with their heads caved in or their guts hanging out.

They slit the bandits’ throats until they heard a yell. A man's yell. Farkas and Aela stared at one another.

“Shit,” Aela said but didn’t move Inkgerthand’s ruins were an echoing maze. They couldn’t tell the direction of the sound.

“East,” Farkas said. Tavia must be involved.

They sprinted through the stonework. The sound to steel against steel got louder. Another yell. Orc by the sound of it. Farkas’ heart nearly stopped. If Tavia were alone with an orc berserker, an orc who was injured and battle-mad— even Farkas would have a tough time alone.

They turned the corner, and Farkas charged, unthinking. Tavia just as Tavia landed what should be a killing blow, a slash to the neck from behind. How she’d gotten around the orc was anyone’s guess. The orc spun, and shield bashed her, she staggered, tumbled to the ground, scrambled backwards. Farkas got to the orc before Aela did.He brought the greatsword down on the orc’s nick cleaving it.

The orc staggered away and tried to charge Farkas. Farkas struck again, taking a massive slice from the orc’s head. Still, the orc swung at him. Farkas butted with his sword’s pommel and the orc, with blood dripping from one eye, seeping from a gash in the head, fell to his knees. Roaring. Swearing. Falling. Finally dying.

Tavia got to her knees, dropped her remaining sword and clutched at her opposite arm. From where Farkas could see, her face screwed in agony, teeth clenched as blood oozed between her fingers. 

Her jaw and voice were tense when she said, “I need to tie off the bleeding.”

Farkas looked at Aela.

She looked back at him. “What?”

“You didn’t bring a med kit?”

“What for?”

“I’m bleeding quite a lot,” Tavia said. “I have potions, but I shouldn’t let go.”

Farkas scowled at Aela, drew his knife and sliced a strip from the side of his cloak. 

“Your cloak,” Tavia protested.

Farkas ignored her. He shoved the short sleeved mail up and tied the fabric tight around her shoulder.

“Tighter,” Tavia said.

Farkas hesitated for a moment but tugged harder.

Aela was behind Tavia slicing another strip of the cloak.

“Potions?” Farkas asked.

“My pouch,” Tavia said.

Farkas reached down to Tavia’s hip and felt around in the small leather pouch. He pulled out four bottles.

“Red,” Tavia said.

Farkas unstopped the vial with his teeth, his gloves did not allow fine movements. He held the potion to her lips and she hesitated.

“Drink,” he said.

“I should wash the cut before I—“

Farkas unslung his water skin and looked at Tavia. “You ready?”

She nodded and removed her hand. Farkas dumped the skin’s contents onto the wound, grit and plant bits flowed out with the water made pink from blood. Tavia hissed. Shivered. She reached for him with bloody fingers, and he gave her the potion bottle with she tossed back in a single swallow before clamping her hand back over the wound to hold it together as the potion did its work. Tavia’s lips were tight all the while, the potion healing her but certainly not taking away any of the pain.

“What happened?” Aela snapped, holding out a bandage from the cloak’s cloth.

Tavia kept her eyes shut as she answered, “He looked dead.”

“You’ve never seen an orc go berserk?” Aela asked.

Tavia didn’t say anything for some time. “I thought it was a myth.”

Farkas asked. “Can you stand?”

Tavia opened her eyes tiredly. Farkas didn’t think she’d lost too much blood. “Yes.” Farkas helped her to her feet and had her sit on a stone.

“Your coat’s ruined,” Tavia said.

“It’s just cloth,” Farkas said.

Tavia looked pale. Aela pushed Farkas out of the way and pulled Tavia’s sticky fingers away from the wound, to begin bandaging it. “You need another potion.”

Tavia nodded.

“Do you have any more,” Aela asked.

Farkas gave Aela a sharp look. Whoever ran the job was supposed to bring the med kit. Bring it from Jorrvaksr and bring it from the job site in case a whelp got hurt. Aela never worked with the New Bloods if she could avoid it and never _ran_ a job with them. She only worked with the Circle who didn’t need those kinds of things.

Aela rummaged in Tavia’s potion pouch. She pulled out the familiar red of a healing potion and unstoppered it. Tavia took it as Aela bandaged the wound tightly. Tavia swallowed and let out a tiny gasp as Aela jerked the bandage tight.

“You gotta watch out for orcs. They’ll jump out at you with half their head hanging off,” she said.

“All right,” Tavia’s spoke in a strained whisper.

Aela stood. “We need to go through the loot and find the villagers belongings.”

Tavia pursed her lips. “I’ll need a few minutes.”

“Yeah, sure,” Aela said and walked off.

Farkas stared back and forth between both of them. Tavia clutched at her arm, her breathing shallow.

Tavia made eye contact with him. “I’ll be fine. The potions will work in a moment.”

“Farkas,” Aela called. “Give me a hand with this.”

Farkas turned to help Aela. She was standing next to a chest and looked impatient. Vilkas was brilliant at lock picking. Farkas knew how to smash treasure chests open at the hinges.

Tavia joined them after a while. Her movements slow, but she searched thoroughly. As they picked through the bandits’ lair, a thought occurred to Farkas; _She_ _didn’t call for help_.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is currently not beta-read, so I will, on occasion, make minor edits to previous chapters as I re-read them again and pick up embarrassing typos and usage errors. :-)


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